Kaikua'ana (Brother)
by praemonitus praemunitus
Summary: A figment of my overstressed imagination. No plot but plenty of whump. Rated T for some violence and swearing.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Please, please, please, don't hate me for this one. This is exactly what happens when I find myself overstressed from work and kid-related stuff. This is how my brain reacts - it throws out these twisted Steve-whumping plots and has me obsess over them until I write them down. It's my own version of stress therapy, I suppose.**

**Again, my apologies. I haven't had a chance to work on the other two stories yet. This is the first night I had free, and here I am engaging in a stress-relieving session. **

**There's no plot. There's only whump. But this is also the first time I tried my hand at present-tense narration. It seemed to fit here, for whatever reason. I would like to know what you, guys, think, though.**

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><p>With every firefight, with every hostage situation it's the "what ifs" that haunt him. What if he had been faster, smarter, luckier? Would it have helped those around him? Would it have helped save the ones he failed?<p>

What if today he had been the one to take the left corridor instead of moving through to the right? What if he had been the one to go through that door instead of Danny?

_What if...?_

"Drop the gun, copper, or I put another bullet in this one!"

He runs back when he hears the gunshot, skidding to a frantic stop at the threshold of a debris-cluttered room. His weapon is raised and pointed at the two entangled silhouettes backed up against the opposite wall, and he is trying very hard to keep his aim steady despite the fact that one of them is Danny.

The light in the room is dim, but it's enough that he can still see the paleness of Danny's skin, the contrast it makes against the sickeningly bright trail of blood oozing steadily from an angry red graze above his temple. He looks dazed, unsteady on his feet, as the Samoan hiding behind him wraps his tattooed arm tighter around his throat in an effort to keep his impromptu shield upright.

"Drop it!" the man repeats, his gun hand digging deep into the side of Danny's face, making the latter wince.

And, dammit, the backup is too far away, and this is _Danny_. Still he persists, eyes narrowing on the bobbing dark-haired head partially concealed by his partner's, trying to gauge if he can make the shot.

The retort of a gun is loud in the small space, deafening, and Steve flinches at the unexpectedness of it. But it is Danny his attention is drawn to. _Danny_, who is listing to the side now, his face pinched in pain.

"Son of a bitch!" Danny cries out, arms grabbing ineffectually for the profusely bleeding hole in his thigh. The Samoan grabs him tighter, the gun once again pointing at his temple, as he growls out, "You got two seconds, copper, before I put another one in him. Drop it. NOW."

Steve's jaw clenches in helpless anger. A "what if" flickers across his consciousness. Maybe he can make that shot after all? But Danny is pasty white now, and he cannot afford to wait any longer. The gun clatters to the floor, and Danny is shooting daggers at him, struggling in his assailant's grip. But he knows he's doing the right thing here. Because there's no other choice. Because he can't risk it.

"He needs medical attention," he says firmly, arms wide in a show of surrender. "I did as you asked. Let him go."

The Samoan smirks in response, pulling his sagging captive higher, and Steve's eyes are once again drawn to Danny's face, and he watches in powerless concern, as his partner closes his eyes, trembling with pain and weakness.

"Lose the vest." The new command takes him by surprise, and he frowns in confusion until he notices the almost feral glint in the Samoan's eyes. The man's intentions are clear, as is the conspicuous absence of noise from the outside. Their backup is still not here, and it looks like they are running out of time.

"Now, copper," the Samoan pushes, pointing the gun at Danny's back now, fingers tightening on the trigger. "Unless you want me to turn your friend here into a fucking sieve."

He swallows, licking the lips that are suddenly too damn dry.

"D... d-don't even... th-think about it, McGarrett...," Danny gasps out, still trying to struggle feebly against the arm that holds him in a viselike grip.

But he's already made his decision, and there are no more "what ifs" to consider. He reaches for the top of his vest, tearing open the velcro with a sharp, determined jerk. The vest slides off, and he lets it drop to the ground, the dull sound of it hitting the floor is like a gavel slamming down to seal his fate.

The gunman smiles predatorily, but Steve's not paying him any heed. He knows what's coming next, and he doesn't need this to be the last thing he sees. He focuses on Danny instead, holding on to the intense, furious gaze of the pale blue eyes.

The weapon barks angrily, and he smiles at his partner in the millisecond it takes the bullet to reach him. There's a sharp ripping pain in his chest, and he feels himself falling, even as Danny's expression twists into one of fear before disappearing from view.

Picture and sound fade out all around him like in an old tube TV, and for a moment his world is filled with nothing but gray static and the violent frenzied beating of his own heart. But soon the rapidly pulsating beat begins to slow down, and bone-deep lead-like heaviness settles in his body.

Bits of sounds filter through. Disjointed words, sharp patchy wails of police sirens.

He thinks he can feel someone's hands on him, someone touching his face. He desperately wants to know if it is Danny, wants to see for himself if what he did this time was right, if his actions had kept his friend safe. But his eyelids are too heavy and he cannot find the strength to lift them. And as even those sensations begin to crumple away into the encroaching darkness, he realizes with a pang of regret that this is one "what if" he'll never get an answer to.

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><p><strong>Uhm, so before you yell at me, this is not the end, nor is this a deathfic. I had this idea for a couple of POV shots. One from Steve's view, one from Danny's. They will not be POVs of the same scene, but the second one might reference the above incident in passing. Basically, though, they will be two unrelated, plotless excuses for whump and angst.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N You, guys, are amazing! Absolutely amazing! I have gotten so many hits, so many reviews, follows, faves. I am so SO grateful to you! Thank you! I will try to write back when I can, but I'm not always able to respond to all the reviews. Please, know that I appreciate them greatly!**

**Here's the second POV. An unrelated case with some flashback, as promised. This was the second plotless plot my brain threw out at me after the week I had :) Let me know your thoughts.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Steve's sitting across from him, slumped forward in a metal chair, arms straining against the cuffs behind the chair's back that hold him roughly in place – probably the only thing right now that keeps him from falling.

Danny's in the same predicament, except that somehow he's faring a little better. Their "interrogation" on the whereabouts of the prosecution's chief witness against one Hector Wu, your friendly neighborhood smuggler and drug dealer, had been going on for hours. They are both tired, and beaten and bruised. But it is Steve their two abductors have focused most of their attention on.

They had their reasons. Not the least of which was that Steve, the SuperSEAL, managed to break the nose of one of them and likely ensured that the other will leave this world childless (not something Danny found objectionable given the circumstances), all while fighting the effects of whatever sedative the two have shot them with as part of their abduction scheme. So, yeah, they had their own axe to grind where Steve was concerned, and once they had him strapped in a chair and awake, they vented to their heart's content, ignoring Danny's growled out threats.

McGarrett's unconscious again, and the two goons finally leave the room – to ice their bruised knuckles and egos? to consult their boss? – Danny doesn't really care, he's just grateful for the brief respite.

He uses that time to study his partner. To say Steve doesn't look good is an understatement if there ever was one. There's a wicked looking cut above his right eyebrow – an aftereffect of a brass-knuckled hit that split the skin there almost all the way to his temple. The eye below it is swollen shut, and there's a deep dark bruise blooming along his cheekbone. His lip is split, and the thin stream of blood from the cut is mixing morbidly with a much thicker flow dripping down the side of his face.

His shirt is ripped, and Danny can see bruises forming on his chest as well, welts of broken skin and smears of blood. But it is an older scar – a small round mark about a palm's width below Steve's collarbone to the left of his breastbone – that draws Danny's attention.

He blinks and he is back at that warehouse all those months ago, and Steve is standing before him - eyes dark with anger and worry. Until they're not. Until there's nothing but resignation and calm acceptance in the gaze that meets his. He wants to scream at him, to grab the stupid bastard by the front of his shirt and shake some modicum of sense into that Navy-screwed skull of his. But he can't – the sweaty tattooed arm at his throat holds him too tight, and his voice gives out before it has a chance to break free. Steve seems to understand him, though, and there's a slight smile on his lips – one of apology and regret, just as his would-be executioner decides that their time is up.

He blinks again, and he sees himself kneeling over his downed friend, blood from his own leg wound mixing freely with the growing puddle underneath Steve's body. Feels the sticky warm liquid oozing in-between his trembling fingers that clamp desperately over the gaping hole in his friend's chest. Hears the agitated voices of their long-awaited backup outside and the terrified quiver in his own hoarse pleas for help.

"Danny."

His friend's raspy voice brings him out of the morbid abyss of memories, and he looks up to find Steve watching him blearily from across the room. He isn't tracking well, and Danny's willing to bet that the SEAL is at the very least concussed. But he's happy to see him awake on his own, instead of having to be doused with a bucket of ice-cold water, as it had happened the last few times.

"Y'all right?"

The words are soft and genuine, but they piss Danny off to no end. Yes, he's gotten his own share of punches, and his face probably does look like Picasso's personal paint palette, but Steve damn well knows he's been goading the two goons from the get-go, trying his annoying self-sacrificing best to keep their attention and knuckle dusters on his own self. So the son of a bitch has got no right to worry about him now, and Danny is about to say so, but the door to their makeshift prison is banged open at that very moment, and he slams his mouth shut.

The two thugs are back, and they are dragging a big-ass metal tub, filled with water that splashes over the rims with every jerk and push. Danny can guess the purpose of it, and his chest tightens a bit despite himself.

They set the tub in the space between him and Steve, smack dab in the middle – to give each of them a perfect unobstructed view, and then they straighten out, smirking at the two of them with undisguised glee.

"Which one of you, brave gentlemen, would like to go first?" The mocking trills of the question haven't even died down, when they get their response.

"Me."

Steve looks and sounds perfectly calm, as though they were asking him to volunteer for help with Grace's school project instead of having his head dunked into a tub full of icy water.

Danny protests, loudly, but all that gets him is a vicious backhand and a jeering promise to let him go next.

Danny knows what Steve is doing. By his rough calculations they have missed their check-in time from the surveillance on Hector Wu's place by at least an hour, and, knowing their teammates, their forcibly abandoned car has already been processed along with tranq darts and blood stains (courtesy of Steve). Which meant Chin and Kono (and likely most of HPD) are already combing through the island in search of them. So all they need to do now is bide their time. And Steve, the SEAL, is seemingly banking on the fact that he can hold out longer under water and likely spare him, Danny, altogether.

He's probably right, and not that Danny doesn't appreciate the sentiment, but the thing ... the _**devil**_of it is that he worries about his partner. More than he cares to admit. And he knows Steve's strong, but he's not invincible. He's proven that unfortunate fact several times over, and Danny still shudders when he thinks how close his friend had come to dying during that botched warehouse raid.

So he can't help the way his whole body tenses, when Steve is pulled out of his chair with his hands recuffed behind his back. Can't help the way his heart shudders, when the SEAL is pushed unceremoniously onto his knees and his head is forced roughly under the water.

They pull him out, and he hears him heave a relieved breath of air before he's shoved back under again. The process repeats. Over and over, and over again. Until they grow tired of his stubborn refusal to panic, to thrash wildly against the icy liquid, to gag, to sputter, to plead. And so they cheat. They let him gulp in air, and then, as his face is pushed under water, one of them slams a brass-knuckled fist under his ribcage – a vicious, breath-robbing blow.

The ruse works, and he can see Steve's body tense, as he tries desperately to hold on to the air in his lungs. They hit him again, just to be certain, and in that moment Steve's struggle is lost. His body shudders, and he begins to fight against the hands holding him down, as the survival instinct takes over.

But the goons are too caught up in the depraved joy of finally getting the reaction they want, and they shove him deeper still, paying no heed to Danny's desperate screams for them to stop.

When they finally do stop, it's only because they notice that their captive is no longer struggling against them, and they give each other a confused and somewhat worried look before pulling Steve's water-logged upper body out of the tub and dropping him onto the floor. He's not moving. And from what Danny can see, he's not breathing either. Panic twists his insides harder than a hangman's noose, and for a moment all he can do is gulp mutely like a beached fish, as his breath feels wedged painfully in his throat.

But then his horror-numbed brain comes back online, and he forces his mouth to work, and he pleads. He pleads, swallowing harshly against a throat that is already raw from screaming. He begs for them to let him out, to let him help.

The goons seem to be just as stunned by this turn of events, and if Danny weren't so desperate, he would have laughed at the near-comical expressions of startled bewilderment on their faces. Apparently the big bad boss wanted them to keep their captives alive, and Danny should count that as a good thing, but the two seem too stunned to do what's needed right now, and they are losing precious time. When one of them nudges Steve with the toe of his boot, as though hoping that this would somehow rouse the drowned man, Danny has to grind his teeth to keep himself from snapping. He cannot afford to make things worse now. He needs their help. So he begs again. Louder. Promising them that he would talk to Steve, that he would try to convince him to give up the witness's location (even though he knows perfectly well that the promise is a crock of bull).

It is a miracle, but they finally concede. And the moment he feels his cuffs snap off, he staggers forward, dropping to his knees on the slippery wet floor next to Steve. His hands are on Steve's chest, pressing roughly, desperately, even as his mind flashes back to that damn warehouse. The wetness underneath his palms this time is not blood, but it helps little to ease his mind, because Steve is still unresponsive, still unmoving, still... dead.

He breaks the rhythm, tilts his friend's head back, pinches his nose with one hand, opening Steve's mouth with the other. Then he locks his own mouth over the cold, blue-tinged lips, and he blows. Once, twice, watching the chest rise and fall with each forced breath. He switches to chest compressions again, blinking sweat and tears out of his eyes, as he silently pleads with his stubborn partner to respond.

He doesn't care that the goons are standing behind him, watching his every move. They might as well drop dead now, because once he gets Steve breathing (and he will, he _**will**_, dammit), they are dead anyway. He'll make sure of that.

Few seconds later he is rewarded with a gargled gasp, and he reacts instantly, pushing Steve onto his side, while his friend retches miserably, bringing up stale water and leftovers of their stakeout breakfast. He's dizzy with relief, trembling probably as much as Steve is – the adrenaline is pumping through his veins and he can't sit still, he needs to do something, he needs...

He sees the half-hooded blue eyes blink sluggishly up at him, and the hand clutching Steve's shoulder tightens, and then he's pulling him roughly up and off the floor, wrapping him into a desperate, bone-crushing hug, heedless of the wetness that is now soaking into his own shirt.

"I can't lose you, you stupid son-of-a-bitch," he professes hotly into the wet hair, as his partner stiffens momentarily before relaxing against him. "I already lost one brother, you understand? I cannot afford to lose another. Not you. I can't..."

His voice betrays him, and he bites his trembling bottom lip, swallowing the traitorous tears. He feels a slight nod against his chest, the tickle of Steve's breath as he manages a gasped out "sorry".

There's suddenly movement around them. The goons are running for the door. And he wonders dimly about it, until he hears the echoes of gunshots, the familiar, welcome shouts of "Five-0". He tightens his arms around Steve for one last time and warns him to stay put. Not that Steve really has a choice in the matter – he's still too dazed, too weak, his hands still cuffed roughly behind his back. He releases him gently, settling him carefully with his back against the tub, and then rises off the floor, determined to head after their escaping captors. Because they almost took away his family. His brother. And no. Just... _**no**_. Not again. He's made a promise to himself. And he's damn sure going to keep it.

"Don't...," Steve's quiet, strained voice stops him dead in his tracks, and he hesitates, glancing down at his friend.

Steve's dripping wet and shivering, the washed out traces of blood giving his already pallid face a sickly spectral hue. But the gaze that meets his is clear and bright and burning in its intensity.

They can read other like a book, and Steve knows what Danny is planning to do just as clearly as Danny knows Steve's reason for stopping him. Because Steve's seen the aftermath of Reyes's murder, what it's done to him, the soul-wrenching emotional wringer it had put him through. Because Steve was there, when, during the plane ride back, Danny woke up in cold sweat with Reyes's sightless eyes staring back at him in the semi-darkness of the salon and the echo of the gunshot ringing in his ears.

Because...

"It's not worth it, Danny. Please..." And just like that his anger melts away in the face of this quiet plea. Danny nods wearily, conceding the point, and slides slowly back down to the floor to sit next to Steve. He wraps his arm around his friend's shivering form, pulling him closer, as they wait for their rescue to reach them. And if he's holding Steve just a little tighter than necessary, Steve doesn't say a word. And neither does Danny.

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><p><strong>The end<strong>

**Well, that's it. Now, I'm gonna go back to my two unfinished stories - as soon as I have the time :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N A few of you asked for more similar plotless whump stories, and I said that I might consider revisiting the "Brothers" for some other plotless plots, if any such happen to invade my brain. These whumping one-shots tend to visit me whenever my mood plummets somewhere into the Tartarus region. Steve-whumping I find is a good therapy for when I'm feeling tired, angry, sick and/or depressed. (Sorry, Steve). **

**Well, long story short, I had a few not so good days (holidays, huh), and below is the result. **

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><p>"For the record, I'm blaming you for this," Danny huffs out breathlessly at his side, and Steve spares him a quick glance, lips tightening in worry at the sickly line of perspiration that dots the smaller man's forehead, a few errant drops of sweat trickling down to freshly dilute the thick smear of blood that covers the right side of his face.<p>

The blond's condition deteriorated considerably over the past twenty minutes that they have been limping hurriedly through the less traveled area of the Manoa Valley in a desperate attempt to cover their tracks. And Steve is now taking on more and more of his friend's weight.

A quick check of the makeshift shirt-sleeve bandage around Danny's thigh only serves to augment his worry. The material is dark, saturated with blood. The Jerseyan is not going to last long at this rate.

As if to prove his point, the smaller man chooses that exact moment to stumble heavily, nearly bringing both of them down onto the freshly rained on ground. Steve lets out a muffled curse, tightening his hold on Danny.

"Oh yeah?" he challenges, throwing a quick, sharp look back over his shoulder. Their pursuers are still some distance away, and Steve will feel more comfortable if they manage to maintain that distance for a little while longer. "How do you figure?"

Danny gives him a sideways glare, and Steve feels a little better seeing the familiar spark of righteous New Jersey ire behind a thick veil of pain and exhaustion.

"How do I... Was it not _your_ idea to hike out here?" the blond gasps out, indignation clear in his voice.

Steve can't help the tiny smile of relief that tugs at the corners of his mouth, or the very next unapologetically baiting words that come out of it. After all, if he can keep his partner riled and talking, it'll be much easier to keep him moving as well. "May I remind you that you agreed to come along on your own volition? In fact, if I remember correctly, you thought the idea was a great one."

"Great?" Danny twists sharply in his grasp in an awkward attempt to punctuate the incredulity in his voice with a forceful accompaniment of gestures. "Oh, no, no, no. I _ne-HEver_ used the word great! Unlike you, my uncouth friend, I know the meaning of words. _Ergo_ I could _never_, _WOULD_ never assign a word as weighty as 'great' to the idea of hiking with your trigger-happy ass through yet another peopleless jungle."

The rant feels good, familiar, but Danny's voice is barely audible toward the end and the smaller man begins sagging harder against him, his strength slowly but surely losing the battle with blood loss. Fervently he wishes, not for the first time, that he hadn't been so complacent earlier this morning , lulled by the false sense of security following Wo Fat's definitive demise. That he had paid more attention to the road and spotted their pursuers before they reached the nearly deserted stretch of the Pali Highway. That he had been faster in getting the dazed, concussed Danny out of their bullet-riddled car. That he had taken more than just his backup gun, which was now tucked uselessly in its holder, its clip empty.

At least he knows he had gotten a few good shots in, and there are now only three gunmen after them. Two and a half, he amends quickly, because he's pretty sure he at least wounded one other, even though he is not at all certain that his final shot was fatal. He didn't have time to check. Needed to get Danny out of there. Fast.

And they had been running ever since, stopping only once to tend to Danny's wound.

Gritting his teeth in helpless fury, Steve scans the area before them with a single, desperate purpose. Because Danny won't make it on his feet for much longer, and that means it's time to change strategies.

About a hundred yards ahead, off to their right, he finally spots what he's been looking for: the distinctive aerial roots of a sprawling banyan tree. Perfect.

He stops for a moment, listening intently to the sounds of pursuit. Judging by a flock of agitated birds that rose with a loud screech over a row of trees framing a small stream they passed about five minutes ago, they don't have much time.

Curling his fingers more securely around Danny's belt, he pulls him closer and breaks into a merciless hobbling run, trying his best to tune out the stifled grunts of pain coming from the other man.

"What's... your... hur-ry...," the Jersey native slurs out, as Steve guides him quickly over to his chosen spot.

The slurring worries him. More than he would like to admit, even to himself. He knows the blond hit his head pretty hard on the glass, when the other car rammed them, forcing them nose first into a roadside tree. And, in addition to a pretty nasty gash on the side of his head, he is, at the very least, concussed. Which makes his next step so much harder. Because he knows the danger that comes with a concussion, and he hates the idea of leaving Danny alone. But it can't be helped. Not if he wants a chance to keep his partner safe.

So he pushes the doubts aside, hardens himself for what he is about to do.

"Figured you could use a bit of a rest, Danno," he offers with forced levity, settling him down gently between the thick, tangled branches.

"Rest's... good...," the smaller man agrees wearily and leans back against the trunk, eyes sliding closed in sheer exhaustion.

Danny's pale. Alarmingly so. Breathing in heavy, feverish gasps. And Steve doesn't even have a bottle of water to give him. What he does have is his cell phone. He couldn't grab it earlier, having to use both arms to keep his barely conscious partner upright and moving. Now, though, there was time. For Danny.

Unhesitating, he pulls out his cell, places it into the blond's hand. "Here," he says, tapping one hand lightly against the other man's cheek to rouse him. "Keep as quiet as you can, but try to get a signal." He hopes the task will keep the Jersey native awake.

The pain-glazed blue eyes blink up at him in an effort to focus, narrowing in sudden suspicion. "What are you... gonna do?"

He smiles at his partner evasively. "I'll be back in a bit. You just concentrate on getting a call out."

"Steve..." Danny's voice is weak, but there's a definite note of warning in it, and the hand gripping Steve's arm is surprisingly strong.

He lays his hand on top of Danny's, squeezing it briefly for reassurance before gently untangling himself from his friend's grasp. "Stay here, Danny," he admonishes, quiet and urgent, "and stay _awake_."

And then, because he knows his time is already up, he pulls away, heavy-hearted but determined. Makes sure his brother is far enough in the shade that he cannot be spotted from the path. And leaves before Danny's hoarse, pain-filled plea to come back changes his mind.

When he is far enough away that Danny's hiding place is well obscured by other foliage, he starts making noise. Lots of it. Crashes through the thick vegetation like a wounded bear, stomping and breaking branches.

The ruse works. It isn't even a couple of minutes later that the unmistakable crack of a gunshot splits the charged air around him and the tree trunk closest to him explodes in a shower of sawdust.

"Stop!"

The command is perfectly unnecessary. He has no intention of running anymore. With his pursuers this close it would be suicide. And Steve may be lots of things, but he is not suicidal. Hands raised submissively into the air, he turns around slowly, grinning at the visibly pissed off, crippled trio that bursts onto the scene behind him.

He was right about the third goon – he winged him pretty good. The front of the guy's shirt is soaked with blood from a nasty-looking wound in his shoulder. Steve is vindictively happy to note that the goon looks like he's faring much worse than Danny and seems ready to collapse at any moment. It's virtually two to one now, the odds are shifting in his favor.

"Where's Williams?"

So it's Danny they're after. The realization takes him by surprise – he was certain this was related to Wo Fat somehow; that the monster his mother created managed to somehow strike out at him even from beyond the grave. This newest revelation should be a relief, yet he finds himself frowning with renewed concern for his partner. The guys look Hispanic, Colombian. And that can only mean...

"I asked you a question, _pendejo_!" The sharp call is followed by an unequivocal sound of a weapon cocking.

"Don't know," Steve shrugs, going for cheeky and nonchalant. " If I had to guess, I'd say he probably circled back to the road and is long gone by now, while you three idiots are out here chasing after me."

His cheekiness earns him a harsh blow across his face. He grunts, landing heavily on one knee. The son of a bitch struck him with the butt of his gun, and he can feel blood trickling down from a split brow. Carefully raising his hand, he wipes at it before it could get into his eye and glares up at his attacker.

"Williams is your partner, is he not?" the goon inquires casually, his eyes dark with menacing impatience. "You came to Colombia with him. He wouldn't abandon you like that, would he?"

If Steve had any doubts as to the kind of business these men have with Danny, they are evaporated now. _Colombia. Well, shit... _

He shrugs again, making a show of getting back up on his feet. "Maybe you're right," he acknowledges unexpectedly, his voice deceptively calm. "Maybe he's hunkered down someplace, calling for backup. Maybe there's a whole legion of SWAT cars heading this way as we speak."

Two of the other Colombians look nervous at that, anxiously scanning the forest behind them, as though expecting heavily armed policemen to jump out from there at any moment.

"What if he's telling the truth, Miguel?" the wounded one gasps worriedly. "Perhaps we should cut our losses and go."

"Not until I get what I came here for," grounds out the one he called Miguel, shoving his gun under Steve's ribs.

"And what would that be?" Steve inquires as calmly as he can, trying to hide a wince. He must have bruised his side during the crash, and the Colombian's weapon jabbed him in just the right spot.

Truth be told, he already knows the answer to this question. Knew it from the moment he realized who these people were. But he needs to stall for time, and playing stupid is the way to go.

Apparently the goon, Miguel, disagrees with that assessment, because the weapon is pushed into his side again, pressing harder, _harder_, _**harder**_.

His side is on fire, as if someone had stuck him with a white-hot iron poker twisting it slowly as they shoved it deeper and deeper inside. The pitiful gasp that tumbles past his lips cannot be helped.

Dimly he thinks there might be something more at work here than a simple bruise. But he can't dwell on that thought, because suddenly he is being forced to his knees, and the Colombian's voice hisses venomously above his ear.

"The money."

He swallows past a swell of nausea, taking a second to compose himself. A second too long, evidently. The gun is back, at his temple now, its owner's hand vibrating with impatience. Time for a new plan.

"I know ... where the money is. I can take you," he rasps, trying to sound fearful, resigned.

Miguel smiles predatorily down at him, gesturing for him to get up. He does his best to comply, dismayed to find his legs wobble reluctantly during his attempt to stand. Gritting his teeth against a new wave of nausea, he fists his hands tightly at his sides, mentally telling his body to deal with whatever this is by locking it the hell up.

For the moment it works, but he can feel inky blackness creeping in at the edges of his consciousness, ready to sink its fangs into him once more and sap his strength. Time is no longer playing on his side, and he needs to act soon. Very soon.

"Where?" The man sounds eager, and even his two fearful colleagues step up closer toward him, intrigued.

"That way." Steve points toward a hodgepodge of bright green vegetation up ahead. "There's a small creek there and a wind-fallen tree on the other side. We buried the money nearby."

He waits with bated breath, while three pairs of dark eyes bore into him, evaluating, calculating. They must find his explanation convincing, though, despite their misgivings, and Miguel waves him on.

"Go."

He does as he's told and begins walking slowly in the direction he indicated, making sure to keep his three captors less than an arm's length behind him. A large muddy patch ahead catches his eye, and he knows that this is it.

Quickly he averts his eyes, taking care not to reveal his plan. They reach the right spot and he calls their attention to a random felled tree he spots in the distance.

"It's just over there."

The desired effect is reached – his impromptu chaperones look to where he is pointing, taking their greedy, suspicious stares off him. _Now!_

He fakes a stumble and crashes heavily into the nearest body. Miguel's.

The man grunts in surprise, fighting to stay on his feet. But it had rained only a few hours ago, and trying to find purchase on the fresh squishy mud is just as futile an exercise as attempting to teach a cow to ice-skate. Despite his best efforts, Miguel's feet slide out from underneath him in the slurping mass, and the Colombian flops awkwardly onto his back.

Steve uses the man's less than grateful tumble to tear the weapon out the flailing hand. He fires with a desperate urgency of one working hopelessly against the clock.

His aim is true, and two more bodies hit the gray syrupy muck. But the element of surprise is gone, and his own feet are suddenly swept out from under him, and he goes down. Hard.

Pain, heretofore ignored, comes back with a vengeance, contorting his body into a rigid, twisted wreck. The burning in his side becomes a ferocious raging inferno, drowning out all other senses. Unconsciousness beckons, rising like the proverbial tenth wave over his head, and it's all he can do to keep those dark waters from closing over him.

Dimly he feels someone grab his arm, pulling the weapon out of his stiff, uncooperating fingers.

He can't have that. And so he rallies. Swallowing convulsively against the taste of bile in his throat, he twists his pain-racked body away from the unwelcome touch. Weak, uncoordinated limbs strike out with force borne of desperation. He hits something solid, hears a muffled grunt of pain and feels the grip around his gun hand loosen momentarily.

He doesn't hesitate. Ignoring the dizzying sway and dip of the forest around him, he locks his swimming gaze on the rage-distorted olive-skinned face above him and pulls the trigger.

H50*H50

When he blinks his eyes open the next time, he is surprised to find the setting has changed around him. The overwhelming green of the forest is no more; he is surrounded by faceless white walls. The surface underneath him isn't viscous or cold, but soothingly, comfortably soft. And now that he thinks about it, he feels comfortable too. The breath-robbing, gut-searing pain is gone, and there is a pleasant numbness filling his entire body. He welcomes the change.

"You... are an _idiot_!"

The hotly whispered words startle him, and he turns his head in the direction of the sound, wincing at the imprudent sharpness of the movement. But the little bit of pain is worth it, because there's Danny. Haggard and careworn, but alive. _Alive_. And that is all that matters.

"Don't you smile! Don't you fucking smile at me, you, empty tin can of a brain!" The blue eyes flash angrily, the pale cheeks reddening in warning of an impending rant. "You don't get to smile after the stunt you pulled! Stowing me away in an overgrown shrub like some damn damsel in distress, while you run around the jungle with a freaking bullet in your side, reenacting a shoot the moose arcade game with a bunch of trigger-happy Colombians. What the hell were you thinking?"

He swallows painfully against a dry throat, tongue flicking out to scrape ineffectually over the equally parched lips. "I didn't... know... I've been... shot," he offers eventually, surprised to hear the barely audible rasp that is his voice.

"Idiot!"

An ice chip is pushed heatedly against his lips, and he accepts it gratefully but warily. He knows Danny well enough to understand the reason behind his partner's anger. Worry. Judging by the characteristics bags of sleeplessness under the blond's eyes and the troubled crease across his forehead, he had been worried sick. Steve wonders briefly just how bad things gotten for him to make Danny worry so much. He gets his answer in the next breath.

"You almost died." Danny is quiet now, subdued. All the anger bled away, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion and raw, unfiltered concern.

A swell of reciprocal emotion tightens Steve's chest, and he nods, trying to curl his fingers around the warm hand he feels next to them.

"So did you," he explains stubbornly and is relieved to feel Danny grasp his hand gently, reciprocating his touch. "I couldn't risk... I had to..."

"I know," his partner interrupts him, giving him a smile of resigned affection.

Danny's other hand cups his cheek, and he finds himself leaning into the proffered warmth, letting his eyes drift closed within its lulling promise of safety.

"You're still an idiot. But don't you ever change." The quiet words hold no anger behind them. Nothing but warm fondness that is so perfectly, so achingly Danny that his heart sings in response, as he feels himself slip deeper into the secure slumber of healing.

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><p>FIN<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Well, I'm following FlamMabel's suggestion and leaving this story collection open for more.**

**This particular one-shot was brought on by last Friday's episode. I was already itching to do a story where Steve protects Danny from a booby trap of some kind, and episode 5x12 provided all the necessary inspiration to push this little plotless plot bunny along. **

**Again, not much plot, really (don't look for one), just another excuse to whump. **

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><p>"Remind me again why we're here?" Danny asks for the nth time, as they pull up to an old, unkempt cabin flanked by a field of overgrown, sunburned grass on one side and a steadily encroaching, dense forest on the other.<p>

Steve is nothing if not attentive. "Because I'm a Werther's caramel candy with a soft chewy filling?" he answers obediently, lips waging a losing battle against the pull of an amused smirk.

"Are you mocking me?" Danny's gaze settles on him, the blue eyes narrowing in a scowl of suspicion. "You better not be mocking me, Steven!"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Because you know how I feel about you mocking me," Danny continues, as though Steve hasn't spoken.

Steve knows better than to stop his friend when's he's gearing up for a rant, so he shuts up and listens, letting him talk it out.

"We have two weeks vacation that the Governor had already signed off on. Two weeks, Steven. Enough time to forget, albeit briefly, about the daily death-defying circus that is our job under your albeit competent but bat-shit crazy leadership. And then said Governor tearfully asks you for help in tracking down his best friend's wayward son, who made off with his daddy's rare gun collection, and you immediately drop everything and rush to his assistance."

"Denning is the kid's godfather, Danny," Steve shrugs, as if it's self-explanatory. "He's worried the boy may be in some bad trouble. If we can help track him down by following up on a few leads, questioning a few people, why not?"

"Hence the candy comparison," the blond nodded at him with a quod erat demonstrandum air. "Break your jaw kind of hard on the outside but sweet and creamy on th..." He trails off, noticing the ever-widening grin on his partner's face, punctuated by a smuttily suggestive eyebrow waggle. "Oh, for the love of GOD, McGarrett! Get your mind out of the gutter!"

A punch on the arm seems to act as a release mechanism of some kind, and Steve bursts out laughing, even as his friend huffs in frustration and gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

Steve joins him a moment later, fighting to suppress the last of the giggles under his partner's withering glare. "I'm sorry, Danno," he chokes out, trying to sound contrite and failing miserably. "I really do love your food-based analogies, I was just a bit overwhelmed by the image of my sweet and creamy middle."

"Shut up," Danny grumbles, walking up the dirt path to the house and leaving Steve to follow. "I am never speaking to you again."

They get up on the porch, stepping around a rotting wood plank in the middle of it, and Danny reaches up to rap his knuckles forcefully on the scuffed door. "Mr. Kaapune, this is Detective Williams and Commander McGarrett of 5-0. We'd like to ask you a few questions about a gun purchase you made earlier this week. Mr. Kaapune ?" he repeats, as no answer seems to be forthcoming from behind the closed door.

Throwing another glare at Steve, as though letting him know in no uncertain terms that this is All His Fault, he heaves out a sigh of bone-deep exasperation and tugs lightly on the door handle. It's unlocked, and they hear what sounds like a soft rustle behind it. For a probable cause it's enough, and Danny takes out his gun, nodding at Steve to prepare, as he pulls open the door.

There's a faint metallic click, and before Steve's conscious brain has time to come up with a label for it, his primal brain already follows the ingrained training. He shoves his partner as hard as he can to the side and tries to twist his body out of the way and jump after him. But it's too late. The half-opened door explodes in a shower of wooden splinters and smoke, and something punches him hard below the ribcage, tossing him backwards like a rag doll. For a brief moment he feels his feet leave the ground and there's nothing but air underneath him. Then the moment is over and his back impacts heavily with the mercilessly hard gravelly surface. He lies there, stunned, his ears ringing, his lungs struggling to pull back the air that was punched out of them by the fall.

A blurry shape inserts itself into his oddly hazed vision, and he blinks sluggishly, struggling to focus.

_"Danny," _his brain supplies, and the recognition burns through the veil of insensibility that's wrapped around him. His senses come back, all at once, in an unforgiving torrent of sound, air and pain, and he moans despite himself, slamming his eyes shut against the brutal onslaught.

Warm hands grip the sides of his face, and he hears a note of panic in his friend's voice, as Danny charges him to hang on. He forces his gaze up, giving him a tight nod that's meant to say he's okay, he'll be fine, he's had worse.

Danny's not buying it, though, he can tell. There's an odd mixture of guilt, worry and fear in the pale blue eyes, and his hands tremble when he removes his own dress shirt with one hand, while pulling out his cell phone with the other.

The cell phone is useless out here, though, Steve knows, and Danny soon reaches the same conclusion, as he shoves the device back into his pocket with a growl of powerless anger. Steve watches drowsily, as his friend bunches up the shirt and tries not to cry out, when it is pushed against his throbbing side.

"What kind of a paranoid nutcase rigs his door with a freaking shotgun?" The words are bit out in a bark of helpless worry, as Danny glances over his shoulder at the Camaro that's parked at the end of the path. "We gotta get you to the hospital, babe."

Steve can't agree more. Unfortunately, someone out there has other plans for them, and they both startle as the sound of another gunshot splits the recently restored quiet.

"Shit," Danny curses loudly, as a bullet buries itself in the ground beside them in a spray of gravel and dirt. Another shot follows, splintering the wooden railing above them, and in the next breath Danny slides his arms under Steve's armpits and begins to pull him behind the relative safety of the porch.

Steve bites down hard on his bottom lip, ripping the tender flesh to shreds, as he rides out the furious waves of agony. A scream seizes his throat, scraping to get out, and as much as he tries, he's not sure he's successful at keeping it in.

He feels Danny's hand on his cheek once more, warm and grounding, and his friend's huffed out words filter through the ever-increasing roar of blood that fills his ears, "...Hang on, babe...I'll get the car..."

Steve's eyes fly open in alarm, and he flails, snagging his partner's arm. "T-too... f-far," he pants, breathless, his worry for Danny powerful enough to jolt his pain-overloaded synapses back into action. "D-dangerous..."

Danny curls the fingers of his other hand around Steve's trembling one, smiles tightly. "We got no other choice, babe. We're sitting ducks out here, and you need a hospital yesterday."

Steve knows he's right, but there's at least fifty feet between them and the Camaro. Fifty feet with no cover and an invisible shooter watching their every move. The thought of Danny making a run for it across that open space doesn't sit well with him at all.

"W-wait..." He uses Danny's arm to pull himself into a more or less sitting position, swallows dryly against a parched throat. "I'll ... c-cover you," he manages, blood-slicked trembling fingers wrapping around the familiar handle of the gun.

Danny considers him silently for a moment, worry and hesitation morphing into an expression of steely resolve. "Stay out of sight," he orders, and Steve nods, gripping the gun tighter.

The blond gives his hand a final reassuring squeeze and takes off at a crouching run, while Steve fires with desperate, furious speed in the direction of the earlier shots. His clip clicks empty, but Danny's already in the relative safety of the car, and he lets himself lean back against the wall, weak and trembling with relief.

His eyes close on their own accord, but he doesn't realize it until he hears an urgent call of his name and peels them open to find the Camaro standing before him. The passenger side door is pushed open, and Danny is leaning across the seat, yelling at him to move.

Steve would like to oblige. Honestly, he would. But his limbs feel like lead, and he can't seem to make his body obey. He blinks lazily, the lids almost too heavy to lift back up.

Until another gunshot cracks through the air, and he hears the sound of glass shattering, followed by Danny's strained, colorful expletive. A brief rush of panic jars him enough to push back the encroaching darkness. His head snaps up, a glazed-over wide-eyed stare frantically searching out Danny.

His partner is lying on his side across the passenger seat, covered with pieces of the Camaro's broken windshield. But it's the bloody arm that Danny's clutching with his other hand that grabs Steve's attention. Danny's not safe here waiting for him to get off his ass. And Steve will be damned if he lets the bastard shooter take any more potshots at his friend.

Gritting his teeth with jaw-breaking pressure, he wraps his left arm tightly around his middle and pushes himself up. His world tilts alarmingly, his vision dimming to a hazy grey. But the car is close, and he makes a lurching stumble for it, collapsing onto the dark leather in a weak, trembling heap.

Danny's hand grips his shoulder, and he feels himself being pulled the rest of the way into the car. The fast, rough movement is too much for his abused body. Pain rips through him like savage wildfire, burning away the last vestiges of awareness.

He's too tired to fight it, so he lets it happen, sinking unresisting into the pain-free blackness.

H50* H50*H50

When he surfaces again, the pain is no longer there. Instead, there's a pleasant heaviness in his body and a feeling of cottony dryness in his mouth. The slowly receding numbness gives way to another sensation – a weight around his wrist, warm and familiar. He peels his eyes open and smiles at the sight that opens before him: his partner snoring softly in a less than comfortable chair beside his bed, one hand wrapped loosely around Steve's, unwilling to relinquish the reassuring contact even in his sleep.

He must have shifted, because suddenly Danny jerks awake, fingers tightening around Steve's wrist in a brief moment of panic that dissipates as soon as he sees what has woken him.

"Hey," Steve rasps, grinning blearily at his partner's haggard, rumpled face.

Danny shakes his head, his lips tightening in exasperation. "Hey, he says," he grumbles, reaching for a cup of ice chips on the nearby nightstand. "That's all you got for me, Steven? Hey?"

Steve tries to shrug, but the move pulls at the still healing wound, and he winces, his free arm reaching subconsciously for his bandaged middle. Danny's on his feet the same instant, fingers hovering anxiously over the call button.

"S'okay," Steve hurries to assure him, "...m'okay."

"Of course, you are," Danny sneers, plopping back into the chair beside him. "Anyone ever tell you that just because your name begins with an 'S' does not make you Superman?"

Steve chuckles softly at that, then frowns, remembering, "The kid?"

"Chin and Kono tracked him down."

"How?"

Danny smiles, slides an ice chip into Steve's mouth and settles back in his chair. "Well, after HPD caught up with our sniper wannabe, Mr. Kaapune – remember, the guy who booby trapped his own house and gave us a nice, fiery welcome? Anyway, they had him spend the night in our finest HPD lockup with a set of beautifully crafted metal bracelets, and, what do you know, the next morning the guy began singing like a veritable canary. We were right about the kid selling him one of his dad's guns. Mr. Kaapune, being the paranoid bastard that he is, eavesdropped on the kid's telephone conversation and was very helpful in giving us any and all information he overhead about the boy's subsequent plans. The cousins picked him up as he was trying to pawn off some more of his dad's collection."

Steve purses his lips, nodding in tired approval. "They did good."

"A very astute observation, my friend," Danny agrees and leans in closer, his hand once again capturing Steve's. "And the good Governor already showed his appreciation by adding an extra week to our well-deserved vacation."

"An extra week?" Steve echoes, eyes drooping with exhaustion.

"That's right." Danny's smile widens and he pats Steve's shoulder with his free hand. "Along with a solemn promise to never ask 5-0 for any more personal favors. I think with your track record for turning those favors into near-death experiences, it's only fair. You owe me for having my car detailed, by the way."

Steve blinks at him with a sleepy, lopsided smile. "Your love overwhelms me, Danno."

His eyes slide closed, no longer able to resist the heavy pull of sleep, but he still feels the touch of familiar weather-roughened fingers as they run gently along the side of his face and Danny's voice whisper above his ear, "As it should, my brother, as it should."


	5. Adrift, Part 1: Anger

**A/N So I was toying with this idea for a while. Then one day I saw a (spoiler) pick of Alex O'Loughlin and Sean Christopher, and I thought - fate. I had no choice but to write it. Of course, as soon as I started to, I ran into a huge mountain of doubt and, well... Long story short, I got a swift kick in the rear from the amazing Doggie and here I am with the finished (gasp) story. **

**It is much longer than the other one-shots in this series, so I gave it a separate name and split it up into 2 parts and an epilogue. As always, I am very much looking forward to your comments.**

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><p><strong>Adrift, Part 1: Anger<strong>

It's been coming, he supposes. Long overdue. Life has pounded both of them into a bloody pulp over the last few months: Danny – emotionally, him – with a generous side of physical damage. And neither one of them really had that much time to talk about and come to terms with the shit that's happened. There was always something – some case that sucked them in, wrung them out, and left them too stressed and too tired to say more than a few words to each other. Even those few precious moments of team-time they managed to get in between cases felt strained, forced, their banter lacking its usual levity. The little affectionate touches and words that used to be exchanged between them as naturally as breathing lost their fondness and ease. What used to be welcomed, now seemed to annoy and even repulse.

So, yeah, he and Danny were definitely heading for an explosion of some kind. In truth, they were probably both gearing up for that fight, each one of them itching to dump on the other the load of their internal torment. Each aching to relieve the almost physical pressure that was slowly gnawing at their hearts and minds, until finally, unavoidably reaching critical mass.

He wasn't at all surprised when it came – a tiny spark of a meaningless argument flaring into a monster of a shouting match. Words sharp as daggers and just as deadly; each one easily finding its mark. Because they knew each other so damn well; knew exactly where to strike, how far to push, how hard to twist the blade.

No, he wasn't surprised. He just didn't expect it to hurt so much when the dust settled and they remained standing opposite one another, faces red, chests heaving, and their wounds ripped open, dug deeper and bleeding heavier than before. Didn't expect to hear his own heart shatter at the look of raw pain and betrayal in Danny's eyes, staring at him from across an impassable chasm they created.

And all he was left with was a terrifying feeling of soul-sucking emptiness that made him want to howl at the moon like an abandoned mutt and a sense of nauseating, throat-clogging, gut-twisting guilt.

_"What have I done?"_

He doesn't remember walking out of the headquarters, doesn't even remember getting into his truck. He just knows that he needed to get out of there. Get as far away from those hurt-filled eyes, the accusing looks of his friends, as he could.

Until he can figure out how to fix this. If it can ever be fixed.

_"If not_... _oh, dear god, if not..."_ He swallows tightly at the thought, bile threatening to rise to the surface again. Because he can't imagine a world, where he wouldn't have Danny by his side. Can't. Won't.

A car honks, and Steve is jarred from his dark thoughts to realize the light has turned green. He blinks, squinting at the street name above him.

_"How the hell did I get here?" _

He seems to be heading toward the waterfront, but he can't remember driving this way. The beach actually sounds like a good idea, but he needs the relative privacy of his own backyard, where he can shed his clothes and dive straight into the dutifully parting waves, letting them smooth the dark storm of emotions swirling inside him.

He shrugs, nodding absently at the irritated blare of horns behind him, and presses down on the gas pedal, pulling into the nearest side street to start his way back home.

His partner's damp, wounded eyes flash before him once more, unbidden, and he bites his lip, gripping the steering wheel harder.

_"Maybe I should call him? Apologize?" _

He throws a dubious, almost fearful gaze at the phone that's lying on the seat next to him, ignoring the pouty little voice at the back of his head that points out grumpily that Danny should apologize, too.

Still vacillating, he pulls the truck to a stop and reaches across the seat for the device, mulling over his next move.

Distracted by his thoughts, he doesn't notice a black Econoline van follows him discreetly, turning onto the street behind him. So he has little time to react, when the roar of a revving engine breaks the surrounding quiet and a large black shape lunges at his truck, landing a well-aimed sideswiping blow at the driver side door.

The collision rattles the cab, catching him just as the fingers of his hand begin to close around the phone. He is thrown sideways, his head impacting brutally with the control panel. A sharp spike of pain stabs him from temple to temple, and for a moment his world blinks out, making him aware of nothing but freight train like roaring between his ears. Until he tries to move. And his left leg explodes in white-hot agony. His mouth flies open in a breathless scream, but his vision clears somewhat. He sucks in a series of sharp, shaky breaths, as he tries to look down at his legs to inspect the damage. His left leg is stuck, jammed by the caved-in door, and he can feel the metal digging into his calf. He knows the skin is broken there, can feel the steady trickle of blood down his leg. The worst part of it is – he can't shift away. The slightest movement would send the jagged crumpled metal deeper into his flesh.

If only he could push the door open somehow. But his current position – awkwardly twisted and crammed – does not provide him with enough momentum to do that. His phone has been wrenched out of his hand on impact, and he scans the floor, hoping to spy the device.

An odd scraping sound reaches his muffled consciousness, and he gasps in pain and surprise when his door is suddenly wrenched open. He tries to twist back to see who it is, but he's still too dazed, still not fast enough. He only manages to turn halfway to catch a glimpse of a dark-clad arm, when he feels cold metal press against his neck. A fraction of a second later his entire body seizes with electricity that burns through his veins like wildfire.

The last thing he hears before he slumps senseless into a hostile embrace is a gruff voice telling someone to "Grab his phone".

H50*H50

When he wakes next – it's to a feeling of general achiness and heaviness in his body, punctuated by a throbbing headache and an inexplicable muscle-ripping tension in his arms. It takes him a while to realize that his hands are actually tied above his head and he is hanging by them from a fairly low height, if the fact that his feet are slightly scraping the floor is anything to go by. With the realization comes an involuntary, instinctive rush of panic. Because it's too soon. Because he can't. Because... no!

He hears footsteps behind him and he forces himself to rein in his emotions, lock them up behind a too, too tattered mask.

"Hello, Commander." The voice is familiar, as is the smug and somewhat disdainful smirk on the face that inserts itself into his blurry field of vision.

"Gabriel?" The name tumbles past his lips – a cross between acknowledgement and confusion. "What are you –?"

"–doing out?" The arrogant smile grows wider still, as Malia's brother steps back a bit, winking obnoxiously at his captive. "Well, let's just say I grew weary of my previous accommodations and decided to leave the luxurious Halawa facilities a bit early. My ... _**associates**_..," he nods somewhere to the side, and Steve only now becomes aware of two more human-shaped blobs in the back of the faceless room, "needed some extra incentive to aid in my early release, so, _**unfortunately**_, I am going to need to collect on that little sum I loaned my former brother-in-law."

Steve licks his dry lips, tries to blink away the nauseating vertigo that hasn't left him alone since he first opened his eyes.

"I don't have your money," he rasps, cursing the headache that makes any attempts at concentration resemble wading through thick and gooey, waist-high mud. "As far as I know, Chin returned the money to one of your _**associates**_." He spits the last word out, making his meaning clear.

Inexplicably, Gabriel smiles widely at that, showing a predatory row of perfect white teeth. "Of course he did," he acknowledges, nodding to the two thugs, who watch him with impassive stony expressions. "And some of that money went toward securing my current release. Unfortunately for you, as I now find myself having to leave the island quicker than I had anticipated, I'm going to need some extra cash to help me with the unforeseen expenses." He shrugs nonchalantly. "Think of it as interest on the loan."

"Interest," Steve huffs absently, trying unsuccessfully to shift on his feet to relieve some of the pressure on his arms and shoulders. He only succeeds in getting his headache to pick up a notch.

"Yes, about 13 million dollars, give or take."

_"How the fuck...?" _Steve knows he isn't quite successful at masking his surprise, the almost feral glint in Gabriel's eyes only serves to confirm that. _"Damn concussion..."_

"Don't look so surprised, Commander," he virtually croons. "I have very good sources and I always make it my business to know what goes on with my money. I know you and Detective Williams returned from Colombia with quite a hefty sum. The way I see it, I helped your friend, the Detective, so it's only fair I get a little extra for my troubles."

"I don't have that money," Steve repeats stubbornly, straining to keep his aching head upright. "And neither does Detective Williams. It's all been handed over to HPD for processing."

Waincroft seems to consider that a moment, pensively smoothing the fingertips of his right hand over his goatee. "That may true," he allows finally and shrugs. "Unfortunately for you and your friend, in my current circumstances I find myself rather pressed for time, and I really need that money."

He motions to the two goons, who approach him with a wordless nod and take their positions on either side of Steve. "I'm afraid Detective Williams is going to have to find a way to get that money to me sooner rather than later. And these gentlemen here," he points to his two silent assistants, "will provide him with a bit of extra incentive."

Steve knows what's coming even before he sees the first brass-knuckled fist flying at his mid-section. He knows they plan to use him to get Danny's cooperation. Knows just as well that, despite all the crap that happened between them, Danny will come. It's what Danny does. It's what he would have done, if their situation was reversed. 'Ohana.

He has to stop this. To warn his friend. He can't allow Danny to walk into this trap any more than he can allow this bastard, who caused so much grief to another member of his 'ohana, to get away.

It's too bad that, by the time the two "associates" are done making him "presentable" and Gabriel grabs Steve's phone to dial Danny's number, Steve barely has any energy left to breathe.

H50*H50

His phone rings, the shrill rendition of "In the Navy" breaking his concentration on the flickering computer screen before him. The screen he had been staring at blindly for the past hour, judging by the tiny electronic clock at the bottom of it. Ever since he all but collapsed into his desk chair, having slammed his office door behind him.

_"What a mess..."_

Steve's face – twisted with hurt and anger – is all he can see in his mind's eye, no matter how hard he's been trying to focus on the pages of a half-written report. His ears are still ringing with the brutal, scathing words that left both their souls bloodied and mortally wounded. Left the rest of their team staring in mute horror, while the two of them all but fled each other's company. Steve – all but running out of the building, virtually tripping over his own feet in a hurry to get out, while he stumbled numbly to the glassed-in, shuttered confines of his office. Out of sight, but not out of mind. Never out of mind...

The phone call cuts in on the swirling jumble of dark, dismal thoughts, of desperate and despaired attempts to figure out a way to fix this, to find a way to get back to how things used to be between them. Before Colombia, before Wo Fat, before... before that spectacular explosion of tempers that tore through the main room of the headquarters and beat their friendship into a bloody pulp.

_"A giant clusterfucked mess with sprinkles on top."_

He scowls at the still-ringing device as if it were his mortal enemy. For a brief petulant moment he considers letting it ring. He's not ready to be talking to Steve now. He's not sure when he will be ready. If ever.

But he knows he needs to, so he steels himself and picks up the phone; seconds before it was due to switch over to voicemail.

"You calling to apologize, McGarrett?" he starts, his voice bordering on snarky. Because that's his safety net, his armor. Because it lets him hide the shaking that would betray how weak and terrified he really feels.

"Not quite, Detective." The voice on the other end of the line is cold and arrogant and vaguely familiar and... _**not**_ Steve.

"Who is this?" Danny grips the phone tighter, the stirrings of apprehension roiling in his gut.

"Check your messages, Detective," the voice orders in lieu of a reply, and Danny's phone pings with an incoming SMS.

He pulls the phone away from his ear, staring at it as though it's about to explode. A tight, nervous swallow later he clicks on the message. And feels the earth drop away.

"What do you want?" he forces out, surprised that his voice sounds as steady as it does because his heart is literally trying to pound its way right out of his chest. The image of Steve's bloodied, listless form, hanging lifelessly off what looked like a meat hook, making his eyes burn. _"This isn't right. It can't be happening. It's too soon. Too soon."_

"13 million dollars."

The response is a vicious blow to the gut, and Danny gasps at the implications of it. _"Oh, dear god..." _

"I don't... I–"

"I am aware that you don't have the money on you, Detective," the voice interrupts, sounding amused by his discomposure. "I suggest you retrieve it as quickly as possible and bring it to the coordinates I'll text you. Alone."

Danny shakes his head, trying hard not to hyperventilate. "Wait, listen. Uhm... that money is being processed by HPD. I can't just get it. I–"

"I suggest you find a way, Detective," the voice cuts him off, unperturbed. "And I wouldn't dawdle if I were you. McGarrett's not breathing too well, if you know what I mean."

Panic surges, rattling him from head to toe. He grips the handle of the chair with his free hand, fingers digging into the polished wood as if trying to physically squash that gut-twisting terror down. It works for the briefest of moments. Panic lets up and anger takes up residence.

"You won't get one fucking cent from me if my partner's dead."

There's a moment of silence on the other end, then comes a menacingly cold, steely retort, "Then I suggest you hurry, Detective. You get here quickly enough, you might just get a chance to say goodbye."

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><p><strong>End Part 1<strong>


	6. Adrift, Part 2: Fear

**A/N So you, guys, are one awesome, amazing audience and the best motivator a writer can have! Thank you SO much for all the reviews! I'm glad you're enjoying this little adventure. **

**Here's part 2. Early, because you are so great! :) Hope you enjoy it, and, as always, let me know your thoughts.**

**Again, HUGE thanks to TheDogo! Love you, my dear! Breathlessly :)**

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><p><strong>Adrift, Part 2: Fear<strong>

There's a knock on his door, a hesitant call of his name. He doesn't acknowledge either, his brain still trying to overcome the shock of the conversation that took place a few seconds ago. The screen on his phone has already gone dark and part of him wants to cling to the absurd, desperate notion that this conversation never happened. That this was all a dream, a bad, bad dream.

The door opens with a slight creak and Kono slips inside, looking anxious and guilty at the same time. He blinks questioningly up at her as she chews on her bottom lip, eyeing him with something close to fear. Her expression echoes unpleasantly in his gut, and he tenses, silently begging her to give him a few more seconds of denial, to not tell him what she's about to tell him, to not confirm what he already knows. _"Please, Kono, don't..."_

Eyes wide with unconcealed worry, Kono is deaf to his wordless pleas. "I'm sorry to barge in on you, Danny, but... Duke just called. They... uhm... they found Steve's truck. It looks like there's been an accident – the driver's side is all smashed in." She swallows tightly, her voice shaking a bit as she forces out the next words, "Steve wasn't there, but... they found some blood."

He closes his eyes as he feels the last pitiful shreds of denial ripped away by Kono's urgent words. Suddenly he has an overwhelming urge to howl like a bloody hound dog at the moon. Lips pressing together into a thin bloodless line, he clenches his teeth hard enough that his jaw aches with the pressure.

"Danny?"

Kono sounds even shakier now, and he forces himself to look back at her, mouth dry.

"We don't know anything for sure yet," she forces out hurriedly, misinterpreting his reaction. "Steve was ...upset when he left," she stumbles over the words, cringing at the unwitting reminder of their all-too-public spat. "Maybe he didn't take the truck. Maybe he walked instead. It... it's not necessarily his blood that–"

"It's his," Danny interrupts her in a flat, dull voice, his eyes straying back to the phone still clutched in his left hand. He thumbs the device, pulling up the recent text message, and pushes slowly out of his chair. "I got a call a few seconds ago," he says by way of explanation, as Kono watches him with undisguised apprehension. "Whoever it was that crashed into Steve's truck, it was a set up."

"You're saying he was kidnapped?" Kono whispers. "Again?"

Her voice cracks miserably and Danny nods, throat tight with a swell of nausea.

"This was sent to me as proof," he forces out, turning his gaze away from the grisly photo, choosing to focus on Kono's face instead.

It's a mistake. Kono's reaction – the way she blanches, the way her lips tremble in a losing struggle to contain a horrified gasp that she muffles with an unsteady hand – it twists his innards with as vicious a jerk as if he'd been looking at the damn picture itself.

"Who?" Kono breathes out finally, meeting his stare.

He shakes his head, feeling like a complete failure. "They want me to bring them the rest of the Reyes money to this address," he slides his thumb over the screen once more, replacing Steve's battered image with another message. "I'm guessing it's tied to Colombia somehow, but I don't know..."

He slides the phone into his pocket and squares his shoulders. He needs to get moving. He's wasted enough time already. Time Steve doesn't have.

"I'm going to go see the Governor, try to convince him to release that money."

Kono grabs his arm just as he's about to push past her out the door. At his questioning, confused look, she announces firmly in a tone that brooks no argument, "You're not doing this alone."

H50*H50

Kono doesn't make idle declarations, and it is the entire 5-0 contingent, minus their leader, that shows up at Denning's office.

The Governor hears them out, his face creased with concern. He knows their history. Knows how close they came to losing Steve only a few weeks ago. Knows, too, that he can no more afford to lose the head of his 5-0 task force than the worry-racked but fiercely determined group standing before him.

So he agrees to release the money. But with a stipulation – the money and whoever is holding Steve are not to leave Oahu.

The stipulation meets no argument on the part of the temporarily (and Danny fervently hopes it's only temporarily) orphaned 5-0 team. They want the son of a bitch who took Steve. Want to make him regret the moment the thought of doing so even entered his mind. For his part, Danny wants to make the bastard wish he had never been born.

They need to tread carefully, though. The address that was sent to Danny's phone is an old abandoned warehouse off the Kaomi Loop, complete with a graveyard of rusted construction vehicles and truck beds nearby. The street dead ends right before it, and there's no way they'll be able to approach in full force without being spotted. And Danny won't risk it. Not when his instructions were so very specific – come alone.

So alone he comes. Parks his Camaro off to the side of the road just past the gates, broken and rusted from years of non-use. He gets out, pulls out the duffel bags and glares at the dilapidated cinder block building before him, all the while trying desperately to ignore the stomach-twisting parallels with his ill-fated trip to Colombia. He can't afford to think that, though. Not now. So he swallows tightly, squares his shoulders and walks toward the warehouse, duffel bags in his hands and Jerry's tiny earphone in his right ear. His connection to the team. His backup. They are two minutes away. Ready to move on his signal.

He is met at the entrance and patted down thoroughly before he's allowed to step inside. A hand reaches for his bags, but he grips them harder, squinting into the semi-gloom of the warehouse. "I want to see my partner first."

A figure steps into a strip of gradually waning daylight that comes through the gaping hole in the wall where a window used to be, and Danny's eyes widen in recognition. Malia's brother. Gabriel. He's never met the man, but he remembers seeing his picture in a file. A closed investigation file. _"Wasn't the guy supposed to be in jail?"_

The man before him smiles tightly. "It's good of you to come, Detective Williams," he says in a tone that borders on mocking. "I was beginning to worry that perhaps you forgot our little arrangement."

"I had to collect 13 million dollars," Danny shoots back, trying to rein in the ever-growing worry. Because he can't see Steve anywhere. "It's not like I could just drive straight over here and pull hundred thousand dollar bills out of my wallet."

Gabriel doesn't respond to that, his eyes straying to the obviously heavy, overstuffed bags in Danny's hands.

"My partner," Danny reminds once more. There's no way in hell he's giving up the money until he has proof that Steve's alive.

Malia's brother considers him silently for a moment before nodding to someone off to the side. The gesture is a sick mockery of Reyes's move, and Danny feels his heart clench painfully at the brutal reminder. Suddenly, the room grows darker, the walls closing in on him faster, faster, until he finds himself back in Reyes's dank windowless lair, watching as one of Reyes's men rolls in a dented metal barrel. Only now it's Steve that's inside it.

His heart is pounding rapidly against his ribcage, trying to saw its way out of his chest. He can't breathe. Eyes wide with imagined horror, he gulps in desperate, inadequate breaths, as he stares ahead of him at the approaching figures. _"No..."_

He must have said that out loud, because there's suddenly a tiny voice in his ear – Chin's concerned, "Danny? What's happening? You got eyes on Steve?"

The familiar voice jolts him back to the here and now, and he grits his teeth hard, forcing himself to focus. The damp walls retreat and his vision clears enough that he can see two men come out of a side room, dragging his partner's limp form between them, holding him by his underarms. Steve's hands are untied, but he doesn't look to be in any shape to use that advantage. His head is hanging low, and there's a thin streak of blood that trails after him, the drops illuminated gruesomely by the few shafts of light streaming through the glassless window openings.

The two goons reach their boss and drop Steve unceremoniously at his feet, stepping back after they do so. Steve doesn't move, doesn't even flinch, as Danny watches him with bated breath, waiting for some sign that his friend is still alive.

A fearful, dry-mouthed, "Steve?" slips past his lips. A gasping question. A frantic plea.

He takes an unconscious step towards him, but Malia's brother puts up his hand, halting his movement. In the very next breath, the sneering bastard shoves the toe of his foot under Steve's ribs, jostling him roughly. Danny's roar of protestation is ignored as Waincroft addresses the motionless form on the ground before him. "Wake up, Commander. Your friend is here to see you."

And there it is – a movement. A slight shift of the awkwardly twisted right arm. A feeble attempt to raise the dark head that ends with it dropping helplessly back onto the floor. _"Alive. He's alive..."_

"I'll take that money now, Detective."

Danny jerks his head away from Steve's _**breathing **_(thank God!) form and scowls at Gabriel before tossing the bags his way. He watches as the other man bends down to unzip one of the bags, a satisfied grin twisting his lips.

"You got what you wanted," he says, knowing his team is listening and giving them the agreed-upon go ahead, "now let me and McGarrett go."

Gabriel straightens out, a cold glint in his slanted hazel eyes and Danny just now notices a gun in the man's hand. A gun that is rising inexorably to point at his chest. _"Shit! Any time now, guys."_

"I'm sorry, Detective," Waincroft offers, and damn if the fucker doesn't sound sorry at all. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

The finger on the trigger tightens and a loud bang shatters the murky emptiness of the warehouse.

H50*H50

Everything hurts. Burns. Seizes. He can't hear, can't see, can't really think. His world roils and spins, never allowing him a moment of stillness, where he can grab onto something – a shape, a face, a thought.

A sharp stab of pain jars his tender ribs, and he gasps at the unexpectedness of it, instinctively trying to move away.

"... up... 'mander. ...friend ... here..."

A mess of jumbled words reaches his consciousness and he tries to make sense of them. _"Friend? Danny?"_ He tries to lift his head to check if his assumption is correct, but the effort proves to be too much, and he growls weakly as it falls back to the ground despite his best attempts to hold it up.

There's movement beside him and he watches blearily as Malia's brother picks through something in an overstuffed duffel bag. His muffled brain registers the glint of a weapon in the man's hand as the latter begins to straighten out. He can't really hear what's going on – there's still too much ringing in his ears, but he can see Gabriel begin to point his gun at someone. And he thinks, he _knows_ instinctivelythat someone is Danny.

_"No..." _

He grinds his teeth against the pain and weakness and snakes his trembling hand forward, grasping the thick fabric of the man's pant leg. And then he yanks, as hard as he can. It's all he can do, all he has the strength for. He can only hope it's enough.

He hears a shot, a muffled cry. For a moment his heart stops as he thinks that he failed, that Danny's dead. But then comes a roar of helpless anger, a garbled insult. And Steve smiles, even as his side explodes with the agony of a vicious kick. And then another, and another. Until he feels another bone snap under the unforgiving pressure, and breathing becomes an even more impossible task.

He smiles against the encroaching darkness, because he knows, he _knows _that Gabriel missed.

H50*H50

A hoarse, desperate shout of "NO!" rips out of his throat, and Danny lurches forward, ignoring the fresh burning pain in his left shoulder. "Stop it! Stop it, please!" he begs, and then simply shoves Waincroft away from his partner, paying no heed to the weapon still clutched in the other man's hand.

He doesn't watch him stumble away, doesn't react to the angrily shouted threat from one of Waincroft's goons. They can shoot him for all he cares, it doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters. Not even the deafening wails of police sirens that pierce the cool, late afternoon air or the bright blinding kaleidoscope of flashing lights that fill up the room, bouncing off the gray, faceless walls. The only thing that matters is Steve, who's gulping in shuddered breaths on the floor before him, choking on his own blood.

He drops to his knees beside his friend and reaches out, pulling his upper body into his lap. Steve gasps in pain, despite the great care he takes to be as gentle as possible.

"Shhhh, shhhh, babe, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's alright, you're gonna be alright." He keeps up the breathless litany, hugging him close, running a shaking hand through the blood matted hair, cupping the pale, bruised cheek.

Steve's eyelids flutter, the dark blue eyes sluggishly attempting to focus on the face above him.

"D... D'nny..."

The slurred sound of his name is music to his ears and Danny smiles encouragingly through tears of gut-churning fear. "That's right, babe. I'm here. It's all gonna be alright now."

Steve doesn't appear to understand him, though. There's a small well of blood at the corner of his chapped, broken lips. He wheezes, failing to suck in a proper breath, coughs a frame-shuddering cough, and the well turns into a trickle that runs steadily down his chin.

"F...f-for...g-g've me..."

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><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Argh, I can't help myself. You still love me, right?**


	7. Adrift, Part 3: Anchor, my anchor

**A/N **Okay, well, I'm a little nervous posting this part, because I'm not sure it lives up to everyone's expectations here. Judging from some of the comments, I feel like I need to write out a little reminder that this story collection is pure plotless fun that focuses on Steve/Danny bromance, hurt and comfort. Key words being PLOTLESS and Steve/Danny. So plot lines are left deliberately vague and unexplored, and any characters other than Steve and Danny are mentioned only in passing. Just thought I'd mention that again.

Right, so, anyway... After all the hurt and the whumpage here comes a little bit of comfort and fluff. I hope you enjoy.

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><p><strong>Adrift, Part 3 (epilogue): Anchor, my anchor<strong>

5 days, 10 hours and 27 minutes. That's how long it takes. For Steve to be upgraded from critical to stable. For the swelling in his brain to go down. For his punctured lung to heal. For his body to replenish the devastating blood loss caused by severe internal injuries.

It will take longer for the cuts and bruises that pepper Steve's body to fade. Longer still when it comes to the scars left on the inside. But Danny will help with those. It's as much his battle as it is Steve's, and he'll be damned if he lets their emotional baggage fester once more before airing it out. Airing it all out – purging themselves and scrubbing themselves clean.

For now he's just happy to be sitting here next to Steve's bed, watching his chest rise and fall. On its own. Waiting for him to wake up.

Somehow 5 days, 10 hours and 27 minutes ago his fervent desire to rip the balls off the bastard that dared to hurt his blood brother was swept away within a powerful surge of fear. Fear that engulfed his entire being the moment he felt Steve's last labored exhale before his trembling, clammy form went horrifyingly still in his arms. Fear that didn't let him go for the next 5 days, 10 hours and 27 minutes.

He didn't take part in the takedown. Wasn't there to help Lou pull Chin off his former brother in law when the big man finally(!) decided to intervene to save at least some of the bastard for Halawa. Didn't take part in writing up the report or taking the money back to the Governor for a "job well done" and some get well wishes.

He was here. With Steve. Silent and contemplative. For 5 days, 10 hours and 27 minutes.

It's dawn. The first shy rays of sunlight slip cautiously through the partially closed blinds, catching dust particles in the air. The minute hand slowly inches toward 28.

That's when he sees it – a slight tremble of the limp fingers atop of the thin hospital blanket, a feathery-light flutter of eyelids.

He sits up straighter, waits patiently for the bleary blue eyes to blink open and leans into his space, smiling brightly as his brother's gaze seeks purchase on his face.

"Four years, Steven. Four years ago you barged into my life and hijacked it like the Super Ninja Control Freak that you are. I was alone and miserable and I prided myself on my Jerseyan roots that allowed me to wallow in my island misery, hating everything around me with a passion. From the obnoxious palm trees and the ubiquitous sea to that offensive fruit-covered concoction you call pizza. I suffered through months and months of being stuck on this hellhole, of being cut off from everything I knew for the sake of catching a few crumbs of sunshine with the infrequent visits with my daughter."

He stops, grasping Steve's hand as the other man watches him intently, his gaze wary, uncertain. The pause is brief, however, because he's had a lot of time to think about what he wanted to say. 5 days, 10 hours and 27 minutes. And once the words start coming, they don't stop.

"Until the gun-toting, grenade-lobbing, roof-leaping whirlwind disaster that is you, babe. You turned my life upside down and inside out. You put my life at risk more times than I can count. You made me age before my time. And if it weren't for the lucky fact that my hair is blond, I would have been showing way more gray than you by now."

He purses his lips, runs a free hand carefully over his neatly arranged hair as if to emphasize that point.

"But, no matter how much I may grouse about your perpetual lack of regard for my safety, you have to know that I don't regret a single moment of craziness that's been my life over these past four years."

He looks away, swallowing thickly against a prickle of tears in his throat. "At some point... during this past trainwreck of a month we lost... _**I**_ lost sight of what we are to each other. Of what you are to me."

Steve's hand shifts in his, fingers curling around his palm in a feeble attempt to squeeze it. He squeezes back and smiles again, eyes bright with unshed moisture.

"There are two people I can't imagine my life without: Gracie ... and you. You are my walking heart attack, babe, but I love you. More than I can ever express in words, which is a rarity for me, as you know." He lets out a soft chortle of amusement, a bit nervous, a bit strained.

"We're gonna get through this, babe. Together. I promise you that. Because we're family, and that's what families do. We yell, we fight, and then hug the stuffing out of one another and we talk, and we make it all better. And I promise you, I _**promise**_ you that it will get better. As long as we stay together, as long as I have you by my side."

Steve regards him silently from under the long and suspiciously wet eyelashes, a tired smile pulling at his lips. "...'m not going anywhere, D," he murmurs drowsily. "You had me at 'four years'."

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><p><strong>The end (for now)<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N Well, I can safely say that this wasn't planned. I was all set on working on "Death imitating art" and... well, there you go. This is what happens when you, guys, encourage me (please, don't stop, by the way - I'm really a sucker for positive reinforcement! :-))**

**Another one-shot that morphed into something... I don't even know what. There's a bit of a back and forth with time in this one, I hope the flow of the story makes sense. I'll let you be the judge. **

**Hope you enjoy it. Any and all mistakes are mine (lack of sleep, blame it on lack of sleep)**

* * *

><p>"Stay awake. Stay. Awake!" The command is sharp, as is the slap against his right cheek. Urgent, demanding.<p>

He grunts, forcing his eyes open a slit and trying to focus on the pale head-shaped blur before him. Blinks, blinks again, until his partner's worry-flushed face comes into focus.

"Danny?" he rasps, his tongue too heavy, too unwieldy. "The... b-boy?"

Danny's face goes in quick succession from relief to an odd mixture of annoyance and concern. "The boy is fine, Steven. As is the mother. They are both here, back of the store. Safe."

He nods, swallows – at least tries to: his throat feels as dry as the Arabian desert – all arid and gritty and no moisture in sight.

A vague jumble of memories flashes before him – gunshots; a boy cowering in fear in the middle of an empty plaza; a woman screaming. He remembers running, holding the wriggling child close to his chest; remembers something punching him low in the back, then falling... And Danny. Danny was there. Yelling, shooting. He remembers the sharp, ripping pain that tore through his back, when his partner grabbed his arm and pulled, pulled, pulled... He thinks he might have screamed. Doesn't remember much else until waking up here inside a shot-up convenience store, propped up awkwardly against a snack shelf. He has the distinct impression that he's done the waking up part more than once.

"I.. already asked that, ... didn't I?" he guesses and feels Danny's hand grip his arm just above the elbow, the touch warm, reassuring. Not at all like the rough-voiced and somewhat shaky response that follows.

"Several times," Danny confirms with a nod and pulls away, checking on something outside of Steve's wavering vision. Steve finds himself missing the contact, a deep visceral loss.

He hears Danny talking to someone – a one-sided conversation that he is unable to follow. He's too tired. His head – too woozy to make sense of anything anymore. And all he wants to do is sleep. He lets his eyes slide closed again, chin dropping down onto his chest.

"Damn you, Steven!" Words explode above his ear, fearful and angry, just as a strong hand grips his shoulder, fingers digging into his flesh with painful desperation. "What did I tell you about sleeping? Huh?"

"T-to... not to?.." he slurs, fighting to unglue his eyelids, and hears Danny's relieved huff of a laughter.

"So you do listen when I talk." Danny's hand loosens its death grip on his shoulder but doesn't let go, and Steve feels an absurd rush of gratitude for that.

"A-always...," he confirms, struggling to bring his partner's face into focus.

Danny makes a noise, an odd cross between a snort of amusement and choked off sob. "If that were true, my friend, my blood pressure wouldn't be redlining whenever I'm with you."

Steve squints at him, lips pulling into a drowsy smile. "M-maybe your h-heart jus' ... beats f-faster... c-cause you ... l-like me so m...much."

"Oh sure," Danny retorts, rolling his eyes at him, "and I bet you think that heartburn and indigestion you give me are, in fact, just butterflies in my stomach from the warm and fuzzy feelings toward you."

Steve merely grins wider in response, chuffing out a pained laugh at Danny's gruffly tossed out, "Animal!"

The lightheartedness of the moment is broken, when Danny's gaze slides down to focus on something behind him, turns dark, serious. Danny's hands reach for something there, fingers brushing against his skin, and he can't quite contain a surprised gasp at the flare of agony that the gentle touch sends through his body.

Danny pulls back as if burned. "I'm sorry, babe, I'm so sorry. I needed to fix that dressing a bit. It's all good now. You're good."

Danny's face tells a different story, though. Steve knows his expressions well enough, and Danny looks... scared. It's bad, he can tell. Really, really bad.

"R-rescue...?" he forces out, as he struggles to get his breathing back under control.

The blond's face darkens further still. "Those gun-toting numbskulls are still out there," he growls, throwing a hate-filled gaze in the direction of the bullet-pierced door. "Not that it would do us any good, seeing how the bastards shot up our only means of transportation."

_"The Camaro is ruined?"_ Steve actually feels a pang of regret for that. He liked Danny's new car. So powerful, so easy to handle.

He blinks, realizing suddenly that Danny's still talking, and tries his best to focus.

"Major roads are still flooded, Chin says they can't get through to our position. And the evac helicopter," Danny sighs, frustrated, "those guys have their hands full – accidents all over the goddamn island."

Steve nods. It's to be expected. The cyclone hit the island more directly and with much more force than was predicted, catching many by surprise. Flash flooding and knocked over trees blocked off most of the roads. Ambulances and fire trucks were having a hard time getting through. The police were busy helping clear the accidents and trying to prevent looting. Theirs was just one in a long unfortunate string of incidents that have been plaguing the island since early morning hours.

Their rescue may not get here for a few more hours. Which, judging by the grim look on Danny's face, may no longer be in time for him.

It's not Chin's fault. It's not anybody's fault really. It's just the way things are. Fate. He tries to tell Danny that, to soothe him.

Yet his mumbled, "It's... o-kay...," seems to have quite the opposite effect.

"Okay?" Danny's face twists into a scowl of helpless fury, as he rounds on Steve with speed and intensity that make him wince. "How is bleeding out in the middle of a freaking typhoon anywhere in the vicinity of okay? Huh, Steven?"

The raw fear in the pale blue eyes that peer into his takes him aback, and he bites his lip in a feeble attempt to control his own slipping emotions. He reaches out weakly, but Danny's already turned away, running a shaking, blood-caked hand through his disheveled hair.

Steve let his hand drop limply back into his lap, bone-deep weariness pulling him under. "..'s gonna be okay, Danny," he tries again, his eyes sliding closed on their own accord.

"No sleeping, damn you!" Danny growls above his ear, blunt fingers once again digging into his arm with painful, desperate pressure.

He peers up at him through a fuzzy mesh of eyelashes. "..'m trying..."

"Well, try harder!" comes a harsh retort, fear disguising itself with a good dose of anger.

Steve's lips curl into a wan, regretful smile. "S'rry... tired..."

Danny's fingers slide off his arm, and he shivers at the loss of contact. "C-cold...," he murmurs dazedly. A sudden childish need to be comforted, to feel Danny's reassuring warmth flow through him becomes an intense gnawing ache in his chest, and he digs his teeth into the inside of his cheek to hold back a pitiful moan of a request.

Danny hears him, though. Because when did Danny ever need words to understand him?

He hears a soft, "Hold on, babe," and feels himself being shifted ever so gently. It's painful as hell, but he bears it because at the end of this brief torture he finds himself ensconced in the safe and warm harbor that is Danny. He burrows into it, feeling protected, feeling loved.

"I got you, babe." The whispered words hold promise of shelter, and he feels Danny's dry lips press gently against the skin at his temple. "I got you. Just hold on."

He doesn't have the energy to respond, but, as he feels himself slipping further into the beckoning darkness, he promises to himself that he will. For Danny.

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

Danny hates Hawaii. With a passion. Hates the ubiquitous sun, the sand, the godawful pineapples. The fact that no one on this goddamn island seems to know how to put on a proper work attire, eat a proper slice of pizza or even keep proper time.

And now there's another reason for him to hate this place – the fact that this rock seems to be perfectly placed to catch every Tom, Dick and Harry of cyclones, storms and tsunamis that blow through the Pacific.

It's a cyclone that started all of this. A goddamn cyclone that was supposed to give a wide berth to the islands but changed its mind and path at the last minute and dumped hurricane-strength winds and rain onto the unsuspecting residents despite the reassuring forecasts (or, perhaps, to spite them).

People fled to higher ground in disorganized stampeding hordes, shoving each other out of the way in their hurry to outrun the rushing waters.

And where the panicked citizens ran off, temporarily abandoning their property for the sake of saving their skin, looters moved in. And the police, already busy with traffic accidents caused by weather and mass hysteria, were being stretched thin trying to maintain some modicum of order amidst the ever-growing chaos.

They were all pitching in: police, SWAT, 5-0. All hands on deck, as Steve, a sailor through and through, put it.

That is why there were here: reports of looting and shots fired. Their car was closest to the scene.

_Two groups of thugs after the same jewelry store, shooting at each across the abandoned plaza. A bullet-riddled broken down sedan in the middle of it. A young woman cowering behind an open car door, her face and arms bloody from the broken shards of glass raining down on her. She makes no effort to protect her exposed skin, however, focusing instead on shielding a small trembling bundle curled against her stomach – a little child, a boy. _

_She sees them pull up, lights flashing, and she screams for help, her voice nearly drowned out by the incessant tut-tut-tut of gunfire that is now turned on them as well. _

_Steve doesn't hesitate. He is out of the car before Danny even has a chance to blink, and by the time he catches up to his long-legged partner, the Super SEAL is already crouching down beside the terrified pair, calming them down. _

_There's a small convenience store over by where they are parked. It's far enough out of the way of the bullets and unattractive enough for the looters that, if they can make it there, they should be relatively safe until the backup gets here. So the plan is to grab the woman and child and run like hell, shooting back for cover. Problem is that, while the kid can easily be hidden behind any of them, the woman would be left completely exposed, and neither one of them is willing to risk a civilian like that._

_It comes as no surprise to Danny then that Steve pulls off his vest and puts it on the floundering woman. He still opens his mouth to object, because what Steve is planning to do is suicide, but he knows the answer he's going to get. _

"We can't protect them both, Danny. I can run faster than she can, and you'll cover us."_ He can practically hear the words in his head. _

_So he slams his mouth shut, as he listens to Steve explain to the woman in quick, terse words what is expected of her. She nods fearfully, acknowledging her readiness. Steve throws Danny a quick glance of confirmation, picks up the boy and tucks him close to his chest, waiting._

_Danny rises slightly from his crouched position and lets off a volley of shots above the open car door. A quick cover, a distraction. It's woefully insufficient, but it will have to do. Steve nudges the woman and they all take off at a maddening, suicidal run back in the direction of the Camaro, toward the promised refuge of the store._

_They are close, so tantalizingly close when it happens. An angry burst of automatic gunfire in their direction, and Danny is thrown to the ground, the wind knocked out of him, as a bullet punches into the back of his vest. It takes him a moment to reorient himself, to clear the fuzz out of his brain, and he pulls up, his gaze traveling ahead of him to where Steve and the others were. _

_The scene before him makes blood freeze in his veins. There is the woman, down on her knees, her hands raised protectively above her head, and a mere step away his partner is lying in an awkward heap, his upper body draped over the boy, shielding him from the barrage of bullets that came their way. And there's blood. A dark red stain slowly expanding outwards from a small hole in Steve's lower back. Steve isn't moving. _

_Gunfire starts up again, and Danny is jolted out of his horrified contemplation. He shoots back, rapidly, vengefully, white hot rage filling his entire being – the bastards shot his partner, his friend. He yells at the woman to get moving, while he hoists the boy up into his arms, grabs one of Steve's outstretched arms and takes off after her, the angry ping of bullets against the pavement following their progress._

That was almost an hour ago. He had contacted Chin five or six times since then. The response was always the same – they're trying, the roads are blocked, and they can't get a helicopter out – all of them are tied up with other emergencies. Chin sounds frayed the last time they talk. Danny knows the man's been running himself ragged trying to come up with a way to get to them, but so far nothing's worked. He's even tried to reach out to Kamekona, but hasn't been able to get a hold of the big man. Chin doesn't even know if he's made it out of his shrimp truck okay.

He hears Kono's voice in the background, the rookie swearing hotly that she plans to hijack the first helicopter she sees, to hell with police procedures. He swallows tightly, as he tells Chin to keep her from doing anything stupid. It's too late for that anyway, and it won't help them any if Kono gets herself arrested or, worse yet, shot.

In his arms Steve moans weakly, the dark head lolling limply against his chest. Danny hangs up, letting the phone drop, as he tightens his hold on the unconscious man. A gust of wind blows in through the broken shop windows, and he shivers as he becomes aware of the cold, sticky dampness that has soaked through the front of his shirt. He looks down at himself and feels bile rise in his throat at the large stain of red that now covers his entire midsection. _Blood. Steve's blood._ He doesn't remember there being so much blood before.

Despair flares sharp and oppressive in his gut, and he grits his teeth to keep himself from screaming.

_It's not fair. It's all wrong. Steve can't die like this. Steve can't die. Can't die..._

He clenches his fist, struggling to keep it from slamming into the nearest shelf. _Goddamn island! Goddamn cyclone! Goddamn looters! Goddamn Steve's hero complex! Goddamn Steve! Steve... Please... Somebody! Help us! Please..._

A rhythmic wop-wop-wop of helicopter blades reaches his consciousness, and he tenses, raising a hopeful gaze to the ceiling. Can it be? Have his desperate prayers been heard?

In the back of the store the woman stands up, shouting something to him, but he doesn't hear her. He waits with bated breath, listening only to the sounds from outside: the increasing roar of the approaching helicopter, bursts of gunfire, angry, powerful barks of a shotgun.

It's not until the doors to the store are flung open, however, and he sees the flushed, worried faces of his teammates as they rush toward them, glimpses Kamekona's bulky form hovering outside by the recently landed chopper, that he allows himself to start breathing again.

In the millisecond before their friends reach their makeshift hiding spot, he brings his lips closer to Steve's ear and whispers with a mixture of urgency and relief, "The cavalry's here, babe. Just keep holding on."

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><p><em>TBC ? Yes? No? Maybe?<em>


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N You, guys, are AMAZING! I'm so humbled by all the attention this story collection is getting. Wow...**

**I may not have time to write much in the coming days, so I wanted to hurry up and get this other one-shot out of the way. Especially, since chronologically it kinda has to come before this Friday's episode (mild spoiler). **

**It's a slight AU on the Valentine's Day party at Steve's house. I've been thinking about the surveillance that Steve got going on Joe's room, and this little bit just kind of wrote itself. **

**Unlike the previous ones, it has very little physical whumpage, but plenty of emotional one. Angst galore with a bit of comfort. I hope you like.**

**Please, let me know your thoughts (those comments are great stimulators for more writing :-))**

**Also, feel free to PM me with prompts for this collection. I'll be happy to try those out when I have time.**

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><p>Amber crashing their Valentine's day cookout is a surprise. To everyone. Including Danny.<p>

Though the biggest surprise to him, at least, is how far it is from being a happy one.

The fact that he thinks about her showing up at Steve's house as "crashing" speaks volumes. Bucketfuls of ice-cold reality. One he'd been pushing away with dogged, blinders-on kind of determination. Because he felt he needed this. Because Steve had said that he should give it a try.

So he was. Honestly. Faithfully. Like a good, obedient little soldier. Or sailor. Or whatever.

Refusing to let himself see that this wasn't working for fear of doing what he told Steve he always ended up doing – pushing people away to avoid getting hurt, afraid of opening up his heart to have it broken once again.

So he hung on to Amber with all his might and despite every desire to run the other way. Pushed himself to give her small tokens of his affection and forced himself to enjoy the ones she gave him.

Each day, however, it kept getting harder and harder to maintain the charade. The fucked-up rollercoaster of emotions he found himself dragged through over the past few months – with Steve's capture, with Matty's death, with Wo Fat, with yet another near-miss for Steve just a few hours ago – it left him completely wrung out. He's got nothing left to give in the emotional department.

At least that's what he keeps telling himself. That's the excuse he's been giving himself for slowly but surely pulling away, for keeping Amber at arm's length, sending her a bouquet of last-minute flowers for Valentine's day instead of taking her out or, at the very least, inviting her over.

Amber, however, must have seen the gesture as something much more special than it really was. Or maybe she knew exactly what he was doing and refused to let him off the hook so easily.

In any case, she is now here. In Steve's backyard. Giving him a hopeful, if a bit awkward, smile from behind armfuls of a giant pink teddy bear, whose big fuzzy paws are clamped around a heart-shaped box of candy.

Shocked by her unexpected and, as he now realizes, unwanted appearance, all Danny can do is stare at her numbly, his feet refusing to take a single step in her direction.

In the end it's Steve that saves them from the painful awkwardness of the moment. Ever the dutiful host, he grabs an extra bottle off the table and walks toward her, welcoming her with a beer-armed hug. She smiles easily at something he says and grabs the proffered beer, still somehow managing to hold on to the candy-hauling bear.

Moments later the enormous teddy bear is solemnly deposited at Danny's feet, and Amber's arm, now free of its plush burden, wraps around the back of his neck and he finds himself pulled slowly but surely into a seductive kiss. One he would have enjoyed tremendously even as far back as Thanksgiving. One he finds almost repulsive now.

He looks past Amber's head to where Steve is standing. Their eyes meet, and Danny swears he sees a shadow there, a flicker of something like sadness or regret. Steve gives him a small wistful smile and raises his bottle to his lips, taking a long, slow pull.

Amber is chirping excitedly into his ear, and he tears his gaze away, forcing himself to focus on what she's saying. He hears the words "Maui" and "trip" and nods dazedly, realizing only belatedly that he had just agreed to an impromptu romantic getaway with a woman he appears to have no romantic feelings toward whatsoever.

When Danny looks Steve's way next, he's gone. His inquiry as to his partner's whereabouts is met with perplexed, unknowing shrugs. Until he bumps into Jerry, who helpfully informs him that Steve had gone inside a little while ago.

He blurts out some lame excuse to Amber, who looks positively stricken by his lack of attentiveness, and walks toward _casa de McGarrett_.

"Steve?" he hollers the moment he steps his foot inside. "You in here? Yo, Steve!"

His repeated calls of his partner's name are met with silence, and Danny feels the beginning tendrils of worry creep in to replace the brief flare of annoyance at being so blatantly ignored.

"Steve!" he tries again, making his way into the living room. "Ste-" he freezes, mouth agape, the rest of his friend's name stuck in his throat, as he blinks uncomprehending at McGarrett's front door. The front door that's thrown wide open. The front door that he is sure, _absolutely_, _positively_ sure, he saw Steve shut earlier, after they all moved to the backyard.

His mind is just beginning to come up with a non-heart-attack-inducing explanation as to why this door would suddenly be left open like that, when the roar of an engine nearly startles him out of his skin. He makes it to the front door just in time to see the taillights of Steve's truck, as it barrels down the driveway and out of sight.

"What the...," he mumbles, staring numbly after his absconding partner. This doesn't make sense. Why would Steve take off like that? It's his party. His house. What on earth possessed him to drop everything and leave without so much as a how-do-you-do?

He turns back, intent on sharing his ever-growing confusion with the rest of the team, when his gaze lands on a sparkling mess of broken beer bottle glass on the floor in front of the couch and a carelessly tossed tablet in the middle of it. The one that was running that nifty little surveillance program on Joe's quarantine room. The, one Danny knew, Steve checked every once in a while to see if Joe did in fact make contact with Doris behind his back.

_Shit._

He picks it up carefully, wipes off the remnants of spilled beer, grateful for the fact that this is a military-issue tablet – all spill and impact proof (Steve-proof, to put it simply). He thumbs over the dark screen, pulling up the most recent file. Several minutes into watching it he wants to hurl, or hit something, or someone – preferably someone, a certain specific someone.

_Double shit._

Moments later he is already running toward the car, his mind stuttering over the same two questions: "How many beers did Steve already have?" and "Did he grab his gun?"

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He makes it to the hospital in record time and frowns as he looks around the parking lot – Steve's truck isn't here. He walks inside, just to be sure, but the security guard at the quarantine wing tells him what he already suspected – Steve never showed up. Which makes the worry that's been gnawing at his gut rise up a notch. He'll be damned if this crazy partner of his isn't trying to give him an ulcer on top of a heart attack.

He nods his thanks to the guard, looks past him to the empty corridor that leads to Joe's room. A sudden, overwhelming desire to go in there and strangle the bastard himself flares deep within him, and he bites his lip, forcing the (justifiably) violent urge down. He has more pressing things to do now. Like finding Steve. Preferably in one piece. Hopefully, in one piece.

His phone rings just as he steps back out into the parking lot and is headed for his car, frantically trying to come up with ANY ideas as to where Steve could have gone. He grabs it without even looking at the number.

"Williams," he barks out, all hope and worry.

"Detective Williams?" the voice on the other end is vaguely familiar, but Danny doesn't have the time or the patience to play guessing games.

"Who is this?"

"It's Akamu, Akamu Kāne. I own the Da Kine bar off of Waimanu Street."

Recognition dawns, and Danny nods absently into the phone. "Yes, I remember." Akamu Kāne. A nice enough fella. Got mixed up with some bad element that was threatening to take over his bar, and 5-0 helped him out, taking a few bad apples off the streets in the process.

"I'm in a bit of a hurry right now, Akamu." He doesn't mean to sound rude, but he really doesn't have time for this. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Actually," Akamu sounds a bit peeved himself, "I was wondering if you could stop by and get your partner out of here. He's wrecking my bar and scaring off my clientele."

Relief washes over him like a tidal wave, and Danny doesn't know whether to laugh, cry or curse. He thinks he does all of the above, because there's suddenly a nervous silence on the other end of the line followed by a tense, "Detective?"

He shakes himself. "Yes. Yes, Akamu. I'll be right there. Thank you for calling!" He is sincere with that last one, more than Akamu can ever imagine.

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It takes him a good ten-fifteen minutes to get to the bar even with lights and siren on and pedal to the metal, so to speak. And when he finally does get there, he freezes up – fingers curled around the door handle, throat tight with agitation. Steve is there, alive, and that's a good thing. An incredibly good thing. But knowing what Danny knows he cannot even begin to imagine the state of mind his friend is in, and for the first time, since running frantically out the door in search of him, Danny hesitates. Because he has no idea what to do, what to say, how to fix this mess. Doubts that it can even be fixed.

Sounds of shattering glass and breaking furniture reach his ears, and he knows that time for hesitation is over. With a heavy but determined sigh he pushes the door open and walks in on a full-out barroom brawl. A shattered mirror, broken bottles, knocked over tables, remnants of smashed chairs and a wild tangle of arms and legs in the middle of it all.

An instant later the chaotic pile-up is broken, and Steve emerges from its center, swaying and swinging, drunkenly dodging a fist aimed at his temple. He looks terrible. His lip is split, cheek bruised. There's blood running down the side of his face from what looks like a pretty nasty cut near his hairline (a beer bottle, if Danny had to guess). The one bright spot in all this is that the god-awful pineapple-covered shirt Danny is absolutely positive Steve wore just to get a rise out of him is now hopelessly ruined.

Danny steps toward him just as another equally hammered "patron" takes a pool cue to the back of Steve's head. The wood splinters, and Steve drops down to all fours, all chance at defense lost. His "fearless" attacker whoops out his victory and raises what's left of the cue stick to deliver the final blow.

Danny's had enough. Grabbing the weapon he had the foresight to take out of his glove box before heading in here, he fires a single shot into the ceiling and roars "Police! Freeze!" at the top of his lungs.

The effect is instantaneous as it is comical. The brawlers gape at him stupidly like a pack of deer caught in the headlights.

"Get out!" he growls, emphasizing his point with the weapon, and they listen, half-limping, half-scurrying out the door like a bunch of hose-doused kittens.

Danny releases a breath, as he hears the door close behind the last of them, and holsters the gun, taking a couple of cautious steps toward his partner.

"Steve?" he calls out gently, squatting on the liquor-stained floor before him.

Still on his hands and knees, Steve raises his head slowly, squinting up at him. "D'nny?" he slurs, a mixture of disbelief and childlike wonder. He blinks sluggishly, sits back on his haunches and waves his hand in the air in front of him, as if expecting the illusion that is Danny to disappear.

When, instead of disappearing, the illusion huffs out a tired, "Idiot!", his frown grows deeper and he reaches out, trying to poke the illusion in the nose.

"Hey!"

The illusion slaps his hand away rather roughly and pulls him up off the floor, settling him into the nearest booth moments later.

"Danny?" he repeats, hopeful, pleading. _And when did he become so pathetic?_

"I'm here," Danny slides into the booth across from him, reaches for his hand.

Steve trails Danny's gaze, blinks dazedly at the broken skin over his knuckles. _Huh..._ "I can't believe you're here...," he murmurs.

Danny cocks his head at that, watches him intently. There's something so fierce, so intense in his gaze that it makes Steve squirm uncomfortably in his seat.

"I told you I always have your back," Danny says finally, his voice firm, the curl of his fingers around Steve's hand warm and reassuring.

"You did," Steve confirms, nodding drunkenly. "A-an' you don't lie... Ev'rybody else lies... E-evrybody..." He trails off, closing his eyes against the misery that is his existence.

He hears Danny sigh, looks up to see him begin to rise out of his seat. _Leaving. Danny's leaving, too. Just like everybody else._

Slamming his eyes shut once more, he lets his head drop weakly onto his arms, praying to pass out from alcohol poisoning. Surely he had drunk enough for that to happen.

He is surprised when the bench creaks beside him, startled to suddenly feel Danny's arms around him as the smaller man pulls him into an embrace. The warmth and gentleness of the gesture unclench something deep inside him and he trembles, choking down a sob.

Danny's arms tighten around him in response.

"She... she came to see him, Danny," he blurts out, the image of his mother standing outside Joe's quarantine room dancing before his eyes.

"I know," Danny responds quietly, his breath tickling Steve's ear.

"She cried..." The words are painful to get out, each syllable – a knife to the heart, the verbalized echo of his nightmare, the nightmare he'd witnessed. "He t'told her that I killed Wo F-Fat, and sh..she cried... For him..."

"Oh, babe..."

He hears a slight catch in Danny's voice, and it's like permission to let go. He can no longer contain the tears, and they stream down his cheeks, as he heaves in breath after shuddering breath.

Danny holds him. Warm, and solid, and real.

"I'm here, babe, I got you," he hears, and his wounded heart flutters gratefully in response.

It's gonna be alright. Because Danny's here. Here. For him. Always.

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><p>TBC<p>

(sigh) I don't know if this made any sense or was even in character. I hope it was. And I apologize if I offended any of Amber fans out there. I just really don't see that much chemistry between her and Danny.

(ducking behind a big bolder, waiting fearfully for flak to come my way)


	10. End of Days Part I

**A/N **So I spoke to some of you following the 5x16 episode, and I'm not gonna go into detail here in describing how disappointed and frustrated I was, how let down I felt following the promotional hype that was given prior to the showing of that episode. Suffice it to say that my initial reaction was to say "I'm done." With the show, with the writing, with all of it.

Then as I thought (and talked/ranted) more about it, my frustration turned into anger. And those of you who've been following this series know how my emotions relate to my writing. This story plot was born literally overnight. This is my response to the frustrations of 5x16. It's an AU of what WILL be taking place in 5x18. Don't worry, I don't expect the episode to go ANYTHING like what I'm writing here. This is based purely on my emotions and spoiler pics for 5x18. The installment will be a two-parter at least (maybe 3 - with an epilogue, will see). And it will follow the timeline of the installments that already happened (there will be references to events covered in some of the previous chapters). And just like the other installment that had multiple episodes, this one will have a title.

Well, alright. I am donning on my flak jacket, crossing my fingers, looking at my amazing support person (you know who you are). Here we go.

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><p><strong>Kaikua'ana. End of Days. Part I <strong>

Danny is arrested on a Friday. During a Show and Tell at Grace's school, apparently. In front of her entire class and all the other parents. Or so Grace tells him in a frantic, sob-filled phone call.

He squashes down the unpleasant flare of disappointment. Because he knew nothing of Danny's plans. Because when Danny requested time off this morning, the only explanation Steve was given was a vague, evasive "family thing".

He hadn't questioned him further then, letting Danny's comment slide and trying not to flinch at the careless brutality of it. Because it wasn't long ago that Steve, too, was considered part of Danny's family. Danny had said so himself. And Steve couldn't help the painful twinge his heart gave, as he wondered absurdly when it was that he had stopped being a part of it.

He knows Danny's been pulling away, despite all of his attempts to close the ever-growing gap between them. Knows, too, that this gap grew wider still after Danny's near-tragic getaway with Amber (or is it Melissa now?), becoming a vast, unsurpassable chasm. And he can't help feeling bereft at seeing the only remaining constant in his life disappear like wisps of vapor through his desperately clenched fists.

That is his loss, though, no matter how devastating. And he is used to those. Hardened against them, or so he keeps telling himself. Because in the end, none of it matters. Not now. Not when Danny is quite possibly in danger, and he has no idea why or even where he is.

The timing of it is dreadful, too. Chin got picked up by Internal Affairs not even two hours ago, held completely incommunicado, despite their rather vocal protests and Steve's worryingly rebuffed attempts to appeal to the governor on his teammate's behalf. Needless to say, Kono's been just about going off the rails with worry for her cousin, and when she kicked the side of the Smart Table with her foot after yet another fruitless phone call, Steve steeled himself against the uncharacteristically fearful, pleading look of her dark, watery eyes and forced her to take the rest of the day off.

And now this... He feels like his team is being ripped apart, and he can't do a goddamn thing to stop it.

It's only Lou and him now, and there is still a robbery case they haven't yet managed to close.

He can't force himself to make that a priority now, though. His mind's not in it, neither is his heart. He throws himself headlong into finding out what happened to Danny. Because he needs to know. Because he promised Grace.

It's all for nothing, though. All of his attempts, all of his connections... A big, fat nothing. It's as if Danny had suddenly dropped off the face of the earth. Every door he knocks on, every nook and cranny he pokes into, trying to get information about Danny's whereabouts, leads him to a firm dead end. He hasn't been stonewalled like this since he began asking questions about Doris, and he doesn't like the feel of this. Not one bit.

It is not until late Friday night, when he's about ready to blow his brains out from frustration, that he gets a call from the governor. The governor that has been ignoring his every attempt to reach him throughout the day. The governor that informs him in the same breath that detective Williams has been arrested by US Marshals in collaboration with Mexican Federal Authorities, that he believes it is somehow related to the recently surfaced new information in the investigation that the Internal Affairs have been conducting on detective Kelly, and that, given the circumstances and the severely handicapped task force, he is suspending the rest of the 5-0 team pending the results of the investigation. Effective immediately.

He resists the urge to hurtle the phone at the wall, when he hears the governor hang up.

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Danny calls Grace on a Sunday. From some prison in Mexico. To say goodbye. It is so unlike Danny, even given Danny's dogged propensity to expect the worst out of any situation, that Steve feels his heart clench in foreboding. Because he knows, he _**knows**_ Danny would fight tooth and nail to get back to Grace, no matter what. Because the only time he can think of when Danny was even _considering_ giving up was when he was looking at a very real prospect of getting blown to bits by a dead terrorist's motion-tracking bomb. The memory makes him shiver, and he tries hard not to think about what his partner might be going through at this very moment, if he decided to make that phone call. To his daughter, his _Monkey_, whom he's been trying to shield from any and all fear and heartache all his life. Knowing what a phone call like that would do to her.

He sees the effects of that phone call first-hand, as he is kneeing awkwardly in the middle of Rachel's spacious foyer with arms full of hysterical, bawling Grace, who is alternating between hugging him and clawing wildly at his shirt. He hugs her back, gently and firmly, trying his best to soothe her, wincing at every gut-wrenching, sobbed out "Danno!" that knifes straight through his heart.

He'll bring him back, he promises. And as she stares back at him with those two liquid pools of brown, a heart-tearing fusion of despair and hope, he knows he will do whatever it takes not to break that promise.

Now that the "where" is more or less narrowed down, he reaches out to the one person he never wanted to speak to again. Not after being lied to in such a smooth, casual manner. _Again._ After all the solemn promises to finally give him the truth. Joe.

Joe had lied to him one time too many, and Steve's stomach still roils whenever he remembers watching him tell Doris that he, Steve, may now know more than she would have liked about her connections to Wo Fat.

But he needs Joe now. Joe and his merry band of two-faced soulless CIA goons who can turn over rocks no one else knows are even there to turn over. And he needs that. _Danny_ needs that. Danny needs him to reach out to Joe. So he does. With fingers digging into his palms hard enough to leave deep crescents welts of bruised crimson.

Against all of his dire misgivings, Joe doesn't disappoint. And he soon finds himself standing on a tarmac on a small airfield some 50 miles outside of San Salvador, watching grimly as Lou and Kono casually toss their duffel bags inside a Sikorsky CH-53 – Frank Bama's latest Vietnam-era dinosaur of a chopper.

He had done his best to talk his remaining 5-0 teammates out of coming with him. Call it premonition, foreboding or whatever you like, but he just knows somehow deep in his gut that this mission is not gonna be without losses, and he would rather not risk any more people who mean something to him. He wasn't surprised when all of his attempts at dissuading them were rebuffed. They _are_ 'ohana, after all. But it does make things a bit more complicated for him, because he cannot, WILL NOT put anyone else from his team in danger.

So he pulls Joe and Frank aside and he tells them in no uncertain terms that they are to make sure his team makes it back to Hawaii safe and sound, that they are to take off as soon as he tells them to, circumstances be damned. Joe frowns at him, but says nothing, just nods solemnly in lieu of a reply. Frank pats him gingerly on the arm, giving him a look that is an odd mixture of admiration and regret. Neither of them try to protest his plan. Perhaps because they both know the futility of it.

The prison they need to invade is a sprawling compound, surrounded by a high concrete wall topped with barbed wire. The plan is to fly in under the cover of darkness, land the chopper about a mile out and then trek the rest of the way on foot. Get in, grab Danny, get out. With as little noise as possible.

Well, he and Joe will do the trekking and the grabbing, while Lou and Kono will stay with Frank and the chopper to provide cover for the getaway.

Lou grimaces, clearly taking issue with this plan of his, but it's Kono who calls him on his bullshit.

"Who's gonna cover you out there?" she snaps, throwing a cold look Joe's way.

And, yeah, that's a problem. Kono may not know all of the crap Joe had put him through, but she knows enough to have that mistrustful gleam in her eyes. It warms him, that wave of protectiveness he feels rolling off of her. And what has he ever done to deserve such loyalty? The only thing he can do now is repay it by bringing his 'ohana home safe.

"It'll be alright," he assures her, pulling her into a fierce hug, allowing himself a brief eye-closing luxury of relaxing into it. Because that sinking sensation deep in his gut is back, and he is not at all sure if he'll ever get a chance to do so again. And then he's gone, melting into the inky blackness of a Mexican night with Joe - a silent shadow at his side.

They scale the wall – Steve's outer jacket thrown atop of the barbed wire to protect their hands, and Steve is instantly assaulted by overpowering, nausea-inducing stench of human excrement and vomit. The thought of Danny being in the midst of all that makes him gag.

"There," Joe whispers beside him, and they take off at a run in the direction of a row of cages filled with jumbles of human limbs, packed tighter than sardines in a barrel.

"Danny?" Steve whispers, his throat tight with urgency and fear.

"Qué quieres, gringo?" comes a gruff, sleep-rasped reply, and Steve latches on to the bars of the cage, seeking out his unlikely conversation partner.

"An American. I'm looking for an American. Danny Williams," he huffs out in a rush, hoping the other man understands.

A pair of dark eyes regards the two of them silently for a moment, taking in their outfits, their weapons. Steve is just about to call out to Danny again, his patience gossamer-thin, when the man speaks again.

"You open up the cage, gringo. You let us out. I take you to your friend."

Steve hesitates, throwing a quick look at Joe. Because this was never part of the plan. Because, as crazy as the plan is to begin with, it does not need to have the added level of insanity that this would bring. And Steve is pretty certain that if breaking out even one prisoner may not go over well with the Mexican authorities, breaking out an entire prison population would be the figurative equivalent of blowing up the island that Danny always teased him about.

His hesitation is met with growing animosity, as he sees more dark heads pop up off the dirty floor, glaring at him from behind the bars.

"You open up, gringo, or we raise the alarm," says the one he spoke to earlier, and just like that the choice is taken out of his hands.

He raises his hand to the communications device in his ear. "Frank, change of plans. We're gonna be coming out hot. Get everybody in the bird and be ready to take off on my command."

Frank's calm, "Roger that," echoes in his ear, and he nods to Joe before raising his rifle and slamming the butt of it down onto a heavy metal padlock that hangs on a thick chain looped through the cage lock. It takes a few tries, but finally the padlock drops down onto the sandy ground with a muffled thump, and the cage doors are swung open, people pushing past him in their frantic hurry to get out.

Steve reaches out, grabs hold of a sweaty, muscled arm and twists the guy around, pinning him to the outside of the cage. Somewhere in the periphery of his hearing he can already discern distant shouts of alarm. The guards will be upon them any second now, but he's not leaving until he gets what he came for.

"Danny?" he half-asks, half-growls, leaning into the Mexican's space and matching his fierce glare with a ferocious one of his own.

The man swallows tightly, then nods, pointing to the far corner of the cell, hidden completely in the murky darkness. "In there," he says unnecessarily. "The securidad... they knocked him out."

Steve grinds his teeth, releasing him with a barely suppressed growl. In the next moment he's already inside the cage, dropping to his knees in front of a human-shaped heap.

"Danny?" he reaches out hesitantly. "Danny?"

Joe shines a flashlight his way, and Steve chokes down another wave of bile at the condition his partner is in: at the pale and bloodied face, at the sweat, filth and puke that cover most of his clothes.

"Damn, Danny..."

He forces down a wave of anger at the bastards who did this to his brother. There isn't time for that. The shouts outside are growing louder, bursts of gunfire added in, and, while the escaping crowd of prisoners is going to provide some distraction, it's not going to be enough. They need to move.

"Come on, Danny!" He slaps him. Hard. His remorse giving way to a flood of relief upon seeing the familiar blue eyes peer sluggishly at him across the rancid darkness.

"Steve?" the slurred recognition comes with a good dose of disbelief, and Steve smiles at that, hauling him up to his feet in response.

Danny wobbles unsteadily in his grasp, and Steve holds him tighter, a knot of worry in his stomach growing larger still.

"Let's go."

"Wh-where... what..."

The gasped out questions float above his ear, but Steve just shakes his head at him. "Later."

A volley of gunfire greets them, as they stagger out of the cell, and he turns in the direction the shots came from, cursing as he sees a group of heavily armed guards running their way. He looks around frantically for an escape route. The way they came in – over the wall – is out. Danny's in no condition to be scaling any walls. He can barely stand up straight as it is. The compound gates are out, too – most of the prisoners rushed that way, and the guards have been concentrating their fire on that area. They need a third option.

"Frank!" he yells into his earpiece. "Get that bird in the air. I need you to make a door for us. North-East corner."

A spray of bullets coming their way drowns out Frank's reply, and Steve shoves Danny to the ground, just as a lucky shot ricochets off the metal bar behind him, burying itself in his thigh. He stumbles slightly, grinding his teeth against an unexpected pain, catches Joe's assessing and slightly worried look.

Almost angrily he shakes off the older man's silent question, turning instead to let out a responding salvo in the direction of the approaching guards. Seconds later the wall to the left of them explodes in a magnificent shower of cement rubble and dust. _Frank._

Time to blow this joint. Now. He pulls Danny back up and begins to hobble toward the gaping hole in the concrete – their path to salvation. The helicopter is hovering just outside the broken wall – he can see its bulky contours past a cloud of settling dust. Two hundred yards and they are home free.

Fate, however, has other plans, and that leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn't for nothing. Much as the slowly dissipating veil of smoke created by the explosion obscured their movements from the guards, it also served to conceal the advancement of the latter.

Too late Steve notices movement out of the corner of his eye. Too late to do anything but twist his body just so, to ensure that the concussed, wearied blond he's dragging alongside him is protected.

The crack of a rifle pierces the charged space around them, just as a bullet slams into his back, punching clear through to the other side. He's thrown forward, landing heavily on top of Danny, who grunts underneath the unexpected weight and tries to shift away. The movement jostles him, and it hurts. God, it hurts!

He thinks he might have screamed, but he isn't sure. His ears are ringing too much, and he's having too much trouble trying to fill his lungs with anything resembling air.

Gunfire erupts all around him, and it takes him a second to realize that it's Joe. Shooting to provide them cover. Instead of doing what he's supposed to do – grabbing Danny and getting the hell out.

He peels his eyes open – (and what does this say about the state he's in, if he hasn't even realized they were closed in the first place?) – and blinks rapidly, forcing himself to focus. Teeth ripping viciously into the bottom lip, he twists onto his back and props himself up as best he can, ignoring the alarming way his vision darkens at even the slightest of movements.

His grip on the rifle tightens and he throws a quick glance at Joe, making sure to catch the other man's eye.

"Go," he grinds out, his finger curling around the trigger. "Grab Danny and go. I'll cover you."

Joe stops firing for a moment and crouches down beside him, his gaze straying to the pulsating vortex of agony in his side.

"Steve...," he begins, shaking his head.

He cuts him off. Rudely. Brutally. Grasping him by the sleeve and pulling him closer to his level.

"You made me a promise, Joe," he reminds him in a low growl, fury and fear fighting for dominance in his gaze. Because there's no way, NO WAY he's letting this all be for nothing. "You made me LOTS of promises. And I'm asking you to fucking honor at least one!"

Joe flinches at his words, and Steve notes with some degree of satisfaction that the man at least has the decency to look ashamed.

"Go," he repeats and turns back to spray another volley of shots at the stubbornly approaching guards.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees movement, sees Joe bend down to grasp Danny by the arm and pull him up, sees the smaller man attempt to twist back toward him, even as he is being dragged inexorably toward the grenade-blown opening.

"Steve?..."

He hears the call of his name from behind him, shaky and uncertain and pleading. He doesn't turn around. Doesn't dare to. Can't allow himself that moment of weakness, when the guards are getting closer and more desperate, when Danny's life depends on him providing cover long enough for them to disappear behind the wall.

He feels himself weakening, but doesn't dare relax his hold on the weapon until he hears an ever-intensifying roar of helicopter blades in the distance, announcing takeoff. He closes his eyes then and lets himself fall backwards against the rubble-covered ground.

It's Monday.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

For those of you who are wondering. No. This is not going to be a death fic. But it'll come pretty darn close.


	11. End of Days Part II

**A/N **Wow! You, guys, have completely overwhelmed me with your response! Thank you! SOOOO much! I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to respond to everyone. I was trying to get the second part written faster (my apologies).

To the guest reviewers. You know I am unable to respond to you individually unless you sign in. Thank you to those of you, who left positive, constructive comments! In the future, please, do sign in so I can at least try to thank you personally.

To the guest Libraryelf - yes, I am perfectly aware the 5x18 episode hasn't aired yet. The note I wrote at the beginning of the previous chapter clearly states that this installment is an AU of an upcoming episode. Please read carefully before criticizing.

To the anonymous guest who likes my stories (thank you!) but doesn't like the fact that I made Danny the bad guy for leaving Steve behind. If you were reading this carefully, you would see that Danny was injured and concussed. He wasn't exactly in the position to do anything about Steve being left behind. More will be explained in this chapter.

And, finally, to the other anonymous guest who doesn't like to see stories or episodes where Steve gets hurt and needs rescued. I'm sorry. But a) I never said that I expect the episode to go like anything I had written; and b) I am a Steve-whumper. That's a fact. And I do believe I prefaced this story collection by saying that these are mostly plotless excuses for whumping Steve. I understand perfectly if that is not your cup of tea, but, really, you don't have to read what you don't like.

Phew. Sorry for the little rant here. I wanted to add one more thing - one reviewer pointed out that there was a correction made since the initial spoilers for the 5x18 episodes were released, that Danny is being held in a Colombian prison, not a Mexican one. Makes much more sense, of course. Unfortunately, it was too late for me to change anything in the story, so I had to get a little creative with the Mexican connection. Hopefully, it works.

So, this next installment gives you both POVs - Danny's and Steve's. And I sincerely hope the timeline and the plot I'm setting up here works and is believable. Phoebe Miller, I might take you up on that heavy duty flak vest offer :)

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><p><strong>End of Days. Part II<strong>

He stumbles forward in a daze, Joe's hand curled around his bicep in a viselike grip. There is a thick dull spike that's being pounded slowly into his brain from one temple to the other, and he is having a hard time bringing his surroundings into focus.

The massive olive drab hulk of a helicopter stands before him, the slowly rotating blades raising up swirling clouds of thick, suffocating dust. The image is vaguely familiar, and his concussed mind is suddenly bombarded with flashbacks of another time in not so distant past – an old chicken coop of a helicopter, a field of windswept grass, Steve's weight sagging heavily between him and Chin.

_Steve..._

Another flashback, more recent this time. Of Steve's intense gaze greeting him in the darkness of his putrid cell. Of Steve's arm around his waist, holding him close as they stumble forward amid explosions and gunfire. Of Steve's weight on top of him, as they both crash to the ground in a less than graceful, breath-robbing tumble.

He blinks stupidly, his sluggish mind trying to give form to the vague tingle of worry, a gnawing unease. Something is wrong, but what?

The back ramp of the helicopter is open, and he sees Lou and Kono standing there, rifles at the ready, as they watch for something or someone behind him. Joe drags him rather unceremoniously inside, roaring, "Go! Go! Go!", even as he deposits him with surprising gentleness onto a sling seat.

Within seconds the back ramp is closing and the helicopter is lifting upwards. And Danny... Danny shakes his aching head, as he frantically looks around him in the semi-darkness of the cargo hold. Because there's something missing. _Someone_ missing.

"Where the hell's McGarrett?" Lou's gruff voice cuts through the mounting tension, and Danny feels his stomach drop as he watches Joe lower himself heavily into a nearby seat.

"You left him behind?" Kono jumps forward, fists clenched, and only Grover's quick reflexes keep her from smashing one of those fists into the sitting man's face. "You, son of a bitch! How _could_ you?!"

Joe looks at her unflinching, the muscles in his jaw bulging under pressure.

"It was a tactical decision," he says finally in a detached, military tone of voice that Danny has come to hate so much. "Steve was compromised during our escape. He elected to stay behind and provide cover fire to ensure that the mission's objective was fulfilled."

"C-compromised?" Kono is shaking in Lou's grip now, looking at Joe as if the other man had suddenly grown a second head. "What the fuck are you talking about?" she screams, nearly hysterical. "What does that even mean?"

"Hurt...," Danny breathes out, finally finding his voice. It all makes sense. Horrifying mind-numbing sense. "He was hurt shielding me. I w... _**I**_ was the objective..."

He barely manages to force out the words over a sudden wave of nausea that barrels through him, leaving him feeling cold and clammy. He'd like to blame his concussion, but he's pretty sure it's not the only thing at work here.

Kono watches him, wide-eyed, looking just as sickened and horrified as he feels.

"We have to go back," she announces.

And, fucking, _yes_, _**absolutely**_, Danny couldn't agree more.

"Tell him to turn around," he rasps, wincing as the pounding in his head picks up a notch. "Tell him _now_, Joe."

Joe gives them both a regretful look and rises back up to his feet, placing himself squarely between the pilot and the disheveled, emotional 5-0 team.

"I made a promise to Steve," he says simply, and his fingers tighten around the weapon he is suddenly pointing at all of them. "Frank did, too," he adds, nodding his head in the direction of the cockpit. "We're taking you all home."

"A promise?" Danny barks out – a bitter mixture of anger and revulsion. He rises, too, regretting the move instantly, as the cargo area tilts and swirls around him, and he is forced to grab hold of the inside wall to keep himself upright. He holds his ground, though, teeth grating against each other as he rides out a renewed spike of pain.

"Like the promise you made to him about feeding him no more lies? Or how about the one about not going behind his back to talk to Mommie Dearest?"

Joe's eyes widen in realization and he winces, a brief darkening of remorse shading his features. "I did a lot of wrong to that boy," he admits hoarsely, and the admission must hurt, judging by the way he grimaces when he says those words. "This is my way of making up for at least some of it."

He looks sincere, apologetic, pained.

Danny doesn't give a shit. Because whatever pain Joe might be feeling now, Steve had gone through years' worth of much, _**much**_ worse.

"Making it up?" he scoffs, and his fingers are digging into the metal in a conscious effort to regain control of himself. Because it won't do him any good if he loses his shit right here right now. Won't do any of them any good. Especially Steve.

"How, may I ask? By leaving him out there alone, injured or possibly d-...dead?" He stumbles over the word, the mere notion enough to suck the air right out of him.

He heaves in a useless breath, wobbling unsteadily as his grip on the wall goes slack. His teammates are suddenly there beside him, and he feels Kono's hand on his shoulder, feels the warmth of their steady presence flow through him. He can breathe again. So he steps forward, eyes narrowed to thin, hate-filled slits.

"This works out great for you, doesn't it," he accuses, tossing out words like daggers in Joe's direction, taking perverse pleasure in every agonized flinch he sees. "Steve dies, and just like that, there are no more uncomfortable questions, no more reasons to hide, to take extra precautions. You and Doris got no one else to answer to. You're free to do as you please."

Joe takes a step backwards, raising his weapon a bit, and Danny feels an irrational, hysterical bubble of laughter fight its way to the surface at the absurdity of it all.

"You gonna shoot me, Joe?"

There is a moment of stunned silence, as the older man gapes at him like a deer caught in the headlights. The only sound heard is the whup-whup-whup of helicopter blades as it takes them further and further away from the prison. From Steve.

"I made a promise," Joe repeats stubbornly, looking straight at him this time, and dammit, if the older SEAL doesn't look like he's actually pleading with him. "And it's... I have to make good on it. I _have_ to. Please."

The sudden anticlimactic drain of tension takes the fight out of him as well, and Danny closes his eyes, exhaustion seeping into his very bones. They've traveled too far now. Too late to do anything. Too late to help. Despair wraps around his heart, crushing it in a vicious, wrenching vise.

"You can't just leave him there," he argues weakly, swallowing past the pain and the bile. "You–"

"I won't," Joe assures him, and as much as Danny distrusts him, as much as he wants to tell him to shove his empty assurances where the sun don't shine, there's something in Joe's voice that stops him short. A raw fierceness he hasn't heard before. And absurdly enough he finds himself believing him.

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

Someone is jostling him, lifting and rolling. The relentless touches are painful, the hands on his body just shy of ruthless. He peels his eyes open, his blurry gaze settling on a man crouching down beside him. Gray hair, white, dirt-speckled coat. His eyes slide down to an equally dirty white bandage that is being wrapped tightly around his middle. The leg, from what he can see, has already been wrapped up. Probably while he was unconscious.

"You... doctor...?" he huffs out, his voice barely audible.

The man looks up briefly, giving him a cold, indifferent glare. "Sí," he replies curtly and goes back to his task.

The bandage is tightened, and Steve nearly passes out from the wave of pain that rips through his midsection. He digs his fingers into the dirt floor underneath him, trying to catch his breath.

"Wh... what... d-da...day is it?" he gasps out, struggling to maintain his wavering focus on the gray-haired doctor.

"Martes," the man replies without lifting his head. "Tuesday." He tapes off the end of the bandage and straightens out, once again glancing his way. "Your trial is in an hour. Be ready."

_"Here?" _Steve wants to ask, but he doesn't have the energy to, and by the time he blinks again the doctor is already gone.

He loses time again. When he resurfaces it's to a bucket of ice-cold water that's dumped onto his face. He sputters, groaning as he tries to shift away from the invasive liquid. Someone grabs him roughly by his underarms, and he feels himself being pulled upward, plopped unceremoniously into a metal chair that had mysteriously materialized in the middle of his cell.

There's a table now, too, he notices, as he is blinking the rest of the water out of his eyes. A man is sitting behind it. Well-shaved flabby cheeks, an expensive suit, a paunchy belly, an air of all-around importance.

_"Must be the judge," _he thinks numbly, shifting his gaze to the two armed guards at each side of the man, watching him with matching fierce expressions. _"Definitely the judge."_

He listens dimly as the judge reads him the long list of his offenses in haughty broken English: killing four guards, wounding six others, willful destruction of government property, abetting in the escape of numerous prisoners of the State of Mexico, including one Daniel Williams, jailed for the murder of Marco Reyes – a dual Colombian-Mexican citizen.

He nods sluggishly when he is asked if he understands the charges against him.

"Do you wish to protest?"

"No." He shakes his head minutely, because what's the point? He did all those things they are accusing him of. The only thing he can do is try and give Danny a clean record so they don't try and come after him again. "Williams acted on my... orders," he interjects. "I'm his... b-boss... He h... had no ch-choice..."

"Muy bien," the judge tells him and writes something down in a manila folder that is laid open on the table before him. Then lifts up the piece of paper he was writing on and declares solemnly, "Lieutenant Commander Steven McGarrett, for the egregious crimes against the State of Mexico, you are hereby sentenced to death by firing squad. The date of your execution is set for Friday of this week."

He licks his dry lips, blinks sluggishly at the judge, who is rising from behind the table, folder in hand.

"Friday," he repeats dully and passes out.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

Another note. I did a little bit of research here, and Mexico currently does not have death penalty, although the sentiment in the country seems to be becoming stronger in favor of returning it. Having said that, this is fiction, and while I do attempt to get the details as correct as possible, a little leeway and suspension of disbelief cannot hurt. Right? (keeping fingers crossed and tightening the straps of that flak jacket)


	12. End of Days Part III

**A/N ** I can't say enough here how much I am overwhelmed by the support you, guys, have given me for this story! I've been so worried about it, about it's reception. And you've been absolutely amazing! Thank you! I've tried to keep up with the reviews. I know I haven't responded to everyone, but, believe me, you have all made my day a million times over! Once again, thank you. From the bottom of my heart!

To the few detractors. We all have our opinions. We are all entitled to them. Disagreeing with something an author writes or something another reviewers says is perfectly fine. Being rude or disrespectful or pushy about it is not. I know some of the installments in this story collection (this one included) have the potential to "stir up a hornet's nest", (as my good friend put it after she read this stuff), but there's no reason to jump down anyone's throat and make people regret putting their opinions and their work out there. Please be respectful.

Now for the big part. An apology. Yes, I have to apologize here. I underestimated myself a bit. This installment has a life of its own apparently, and it outgrew the 3-chapter bounds I have set for it. So this chapter here will NOT be the final one. I hope you're not too disappointed. The conclusion will come. For now, enjoy a bit of a twist and plenty of angst. And, as always, please be kind and leave a review :) I thrive on those

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><p><strong>E<strong>**nd of Days. Part III **

He is left alone for the next two days, his solitary existence broken only by visits from the already familiar doctor. Exactly one per day. At exactly the same time.

Or so he thinks. He isn't actually too sure about the flow of time as of late. It seems to warp around him, stretching, distorting, then collapsing in on itself into short, condensed bursts. It's strange, disconcerting. But he can't figure out why it's happening. His thoughts are entangled in a thick, viscous quagmire of his fevered mind, and it's taking all of his strength just to concentrate on keeping his eyes open.

So he lies on his back, watching the passing of time outside the thick metal bars of his cell – the cool emptiness of night giving way to another sun-scorched day. He isn't sure exactly what day it is. He asks.

"Thursday," the doctor answers, and his voice seems softer somehow. Or maybe it's just his imagination.

_Thursday. _Tomorrow then, he thinks. It'll all be over tomorrow.

He wonders idly how his team is faring. If they made it back safe. If they were able to do anything to help Chin. He hopes the answer is yes to both. Feels a sharp pang of regret at the thought of never seeing any of them again. They are a good team, and they'll do just fine without him, he knows. And he'll be forever grateful for that unique, fiercely loyal and genuinely loving family they allowed him to be a part of, even for this brief a time. To his dying breath. Which is, apparently, coming very, _very_ soon.

He doesn't regret what he did, though. Because he was keeping his promise to Grace. Because this was Danny. Because it was Danny, who made him feel alive again. Danny, who tore down a lifetime's worth of walls he had built around his emotions and laid a path straight to his heart. Because Danny had saved him countless of times. From dangers external and from himself. Because a world without Danny would be a much darker, scarier place. A place he can't imagine. And doesn't even want to try.

So, yes, he's perfectly at peace with his decision. He knows he made the right one.

The cool touch of a calloused hand on his sweat-covered forehead startles him out of his thoughts, and he blinks up sluggishly, surprised to find the doctor leaning over him with a grim, preoccupied air.

"Your fever is growing," he says to Steve's questioning gaze. "I am afraid your wounds are infected."

I could've told you that, Steve thinks cheekily and gasps as a violent shiver racks his frame at that very moment as if to prove a point.

"Here." The doctor pulls a small plastic bottle out of his bag, shakes a white pill out onto the palm of his hand. "Take this," he says and reaches for the glass of questionably drinkable water that the guards had placed in his cell earlier.

Steve stares back at him with a mixture of confusion and distrust, eyes narrowing on the little round pill in the doctor's hand.

"Tylenol," the man explains, as he sets the glass down and unexpectedly moves his free hand to cup the back of Steve's head, propping him up. "Make fever go down a bit. Take this now and I bring you one more in six hours."

Steve accepts his ministrations, chasing down the pill with a swallow of tepid, smelly water. "Wh-why?..." he wants to know.

The doctor guides his head back down onto the ground and looks away, lips pinching in something akin to disgust.

"They want me to make you well enough to stand before the firing squad tomorrow," he admits reluctantly, avoiding his patient's fevered gaze. "But they will not let me patch up your wounds or remove the bullet from your leg. This is the best I can do."

"Well," Steve huffs out, letting his eyes slide closed from the sheer exhaustion of breathing, "at least t-tomorrow that ... bullet will h..have some company..."

The morbid joke falls flat, the silence that follows almost deafening, and Steve forces himself to unglue the heavy eyelids only to see the doctor rise to his feet almost angrily and walk determinedly toward the cell door.

On the threshold he turns around, giving Steve a look of apologetic disapproval.

"I am a man of medicine," he says, brows pinched in displeasure. "I took an oath. I understand you must be punished, but I cannot condone suffering."

With that he's gone, and the metal click of the lock behind him ticks off the final leg of his last day.

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

They come into his cell in the pre-dawn light – two armed guards that pull him to his feet and lead him, stumbling and swaying, out into the prison yard. Five more rifle-carrying guards and the warden are already waiting outside, watching his slow, wavering progress with calm indifference.

His convoy props him up against the compound wall and steps away to join the others. His hands are left untied, and he leans gratefully into the wall, fingers vainly seeking purchase on the smooth, concrete surface.

The guards line up before him, a row of rifles leveled with deadly precision at his chest. There is a charged stillness in the air around them, a crackle of morbid anticipation.

The warden raises his right arm, preparing to give the signal to fire, and Steve lets his gaze wander. Past the deadly black holes of rifle barrels aimed at his heart. Past the heavy, murderous glares of the guards and the drab, fetid expanse of the prison compound. Toward the upper edge of the wall. To where the first patches of brilliant white light paint wide spellbinding strokes across the early morning sky. The breaking dawn. His last.

He latches on to the breath-stealing, mesmerizing view of reawakening nature, soaking it in, letting it calm his wildly beating heart.

At the periphery of his wavering vision he sees the warden's arm drop like the trap door of the gallows. The final direction in this macabre choreography of death.

"¡Fuego!"

The deafening salvo of seven rifles shatters the peaceful stillness, and Steve lets his eyes slide closed, as his world falls away.

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

They are waiting to hear from Joe, waiting for him to deliver on his promise of bringing Steve back, when it happens. A near-frantic phone call from Jerry urging them to turn on the news channel.

They do. Well, Kono does, actually, because Lou is still learning how to handle the damn Smart Table and Danny... Well, Danny never really _was_ good with technology to begin with.

It doesn't hit Danny at first – the report of an execution of an American citizen in Mexico. Not until he gets a chance to process the reporter's words, to let them reach his horror-numbed brain.

_"...first execution in over 50 years..."_

_"...American Navy SEAL, responsible for the deaths of several prison workers and the escape of a number of dangerous criminals..."_

_"...argued successfully for the return of death penalty to make an example of..."_

_"...sentence was carried out earlier this morning..."_

"No..."

Kono's gasped out word startles him out of his shell-shocked stupor and he drags his gaze away from the nightmare playing out before him on screen, blinking dazedly at his younger teammate. His mouth opens, as if to seek explanation for this. Because this doesn't make sense. Because it can't be real. Because it doesn't fucking compute!

But Kono crumples to the floor in a sobbing, shuddering ball of grief. And Lou is wrapping his big arms around her shaking form, his own cheeks wet with steady tracks of tears.

And Danny can't breathe.

Shaking his head in feverish denial, he gulps in air with frantic, desperate heaves. The effort is useless, and he feels the walls closing in, darkness encroaching at the edges of his vision.

So he runs. Stumbles out of the offices, down the stairs, past the security guards by the entrance. Bursts through the heavy doors to the bright sunlit lawn. And breathes, breathes for all he's worth. Panicked now, because he still can't seem to get enough.

The tightness in his chest does not leave him alone. Instead it seems to grow stronger with each passing second, and he feels like he's dying.

And then it hits him – the realization that it will never go away. That this is what it feels like to lose one half of your heart. That he will never be able to breathe fully again because Steve is gone, and half of his world is gone with him.

His vision blurs. From tears. From lack of oxygen. His knees hit the ground before he even realizes he's falling. He pulls in one final wheezing breath, and the ruthless suffocating vise around his chest cracks suddenly in a loud, gut-wrenching sob. And he falls forward onto his hands, digging his fingers into the supple, grass-covered earth, howling Steve's name past the shredding, burning agony of his heart being ripped in two.

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

He wakes to an odd sensation of motion, of steady rumbling vibrations pulsing through his body.

This can't be right. He's supposed to be dead. Isn't he?

The sensation doesn't go away, becoming stronger instead. Strong enough at times to send a jolt of pain through his weary body. And this is definitely wrong. Because dead men don't feel pain, do they?

Puzzled, he struggles to peel his eyes open, succeeding only in getting them to a pitiful half-mast. It would have to do, though, and he blinks at his hazy surroundings, trying to make sense of them.

He's in a car. He can tell that much. Leant sideways against the passenger door with his head bouncing lightly against the rolled up window. There's a seatbelt stretched around his middle. It's probably the only thing that's keeping him in his seat, but it also puts a painfully uncomfortable pressure on his wound. Pressure that becomes an agonizing stab each time the car hits a bump or a pothole. Which this road they are driving on seems to be made of.

He can't help a groan that escapes past his chapped lips as the car makes yet another overly enthusiastic bounce.

"Steven, honey? You awake?"

The voice is one he never expected to hear. It holds an empty promise of love and comfort, an ice-cold reality of deceit and neglect.

He manages to turn his head slightly, lets his bleary gaze slide to the dark-clothed figure in the driver's seat beside him. Squints at the familiar strands of dirty blond hair, sticking out from under a black beanie, at the hazel eyes that dart his way every few seconds. They appear worried, warm. But all he feels is cold. Bone-deep, heart-numbing cold.

He shivers.

She reaches out, hand flush against his forehead. And he's a little kid again, sick in his bed, his mom leaning over him, warm hand brushing his forehead to check his temperature, leaning in to kiss the top of his head. The memory hurts, and he turns his head weakly, moving away from her touch.

The hand drops, and Doris purses her lips in displeasure. "You're burning up," she says quietly. "I'm gonna need to step on it."

The car roars, as she pushes deeper down on the gas pedal, and Steve slams his eyes shut at the renewed deluge of pain.

"I'm sorry, baby," he hears, and he wants to scream and rage at the ludicrous term of endearment. Because how dare she? "We'll be out of the country soon. We'll get you fixed up."

A hand touches his shoulder gingerly, and he has no strength to pull away. "Don't...," he rasps instead, hoping she'll understand.

She does, and Steve is relieved to have her physical weight off his shoulder. He can't handle this right now. He is having a hard enough time understanding what's going on.

"What 'r... y-you doing... here...," he manages.

Doris shrugs. "Joe called," she says simply. "Said my son was in trouble. I was in the neighborhood, so I dropped by." She pulls her gaze away from the road, gives him a tight, questioning smile. "You can't expect me to leave my child to die, can you?"

He wants to tell her just what he expects of her. But biting back would require energy. Too much energy. And he's too exhausted, in too much pain. So he lets it go. "H-how...," he wants to know instead.

Doris winks conspiratorially at him. "I know someone who is a good friend of the prison warden in San Salvador," she divulges, eyes crinkling with amusement. "It is the warden's job to check all the rifles to make sure they are properly loaded. Your execution squad was firing blanks."

_Ah..._

"It worked out great, too, because the warden tells me that you, my boy, dropped like a rock the moment they fired. He worried that he had switched the wrong ammunition," Doris says with an amused huff of laughter and leans slightly into his space as though for a shoulder bump.

He doesn't move from his semi-reclined position, and, thankfully she is too far to reach him like that without letting go of the wheel. She moves back, seemingly unfazed.

"Glad I could... pass out on ...s.. schedule," he forces out bitterly. His head is spinning, and the gray around the edges is growing with each passing second, slowly obscuring what remains of his field of vision.

"Well, I thought you might appreciate the stunt a bit more." Doris sounds almost petulant, and he wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. "Mexico's first execution in over 50 years. They planned on broadcasting it all over the country. And I pulled some pretty heavy-duty strings there. I'll be in debt up to my ears for a long time to come," she adds lamely, her forcedly light mood quickly falling flat.

Her face is a complete blur to him now, and he abandons his attempts to focus, letting his eyes slide closed instead. "Should've j'st... l'let 'em ...kill me," he slurs and allows the dark, senseless void to swallow him whole.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

Uhm... well, seemed like a good place to stop (I have a witness to confirm :))


	13. End of Days Part IV

**A/N **Alright, this is it for this monster. Wrapping this up with a bit more angst and comfort fluff. Again, since I'm trying to stay away from plot-driven stories in this collection, I am not going to go into too many details on the rescue or the medical stuff or the fates of any of the other characters that are not Steve or Danny.

Once again, a huge thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! I do my best to keep up and respond, but I don't always manage. Please know that I appreciate your comments greatly! Thanks for reading!

And to several of you who've been asking me about "Death Imitating Art". Yes, I am absolutely going to finish it! In fact, this is my plan now - to work on finishing that story and not let any other one-shots interfere until I do :)

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><p><strong>End of Days. Part IV<strong>

He doesn't know how long he's been here, standing on all fours on the grass lawn in front of the Ali'iolani Hale in a very vocal and very public display of grief. It feels long. It feels like a century has passed. Like he has aged a century, has cried a century worth of tears. He sits back on his knees, wiping a shaking hand down his tear-stained face. He feels drained, wrung out. And worst of all, he has no idea what to do now. How to keep going. How to live.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, a tentative call of his name. He turns his head to find Kono standing beside him. She looks pale underneath her tan, eyes red-rimmed and watery. But she is smiling, bright and hopeful against the dark, oppressive sorrow that surrounds him. And it just looks wrong. How could she smile like that when Steve is–? Why would she–?

"Steve's alive, Danny."

He blinks at her, uncomprehending, but she's already dragging him upwards, pulling him into a fierce, desperate embrace.

"He's alive!"

The barely contained excitement of her whispered words rams into the wall of anguish that surrounds him, and he feels the darkness around his heart splinter, the warm and blindingly bright light of hope bursting through the cracks.

"H-how?" he manages to get out, his voice sand-dry and shaky, as he clings feverishly to her thin shoulders, afraid to let go. Because he's sure, somehow, that if he does it'll all turn out to be nothing more than a figment of his fevered mind, his desperate hope.

"Come on back upstairs with me," she tells him instead and starts tugging him toward the building. He stumbles along, too stunned to resist.

The first thing he sees when he steps into the common area of the 5-0 offices is Joe. The SEAL looks preoccupied, leaning heavily on the Smart Table, staring at something on the screen. He turns when Danny walks in and frowns at whatever it is he sees in Danny's face.

"I'm really sorry," Joe says, looking very much contrite. "I was hoping to get to you, guys, before you saw the news."

Joe looks to Kono and cringes, gingerly raising his hand to his lip, which Danny just now notices is bleeding. Kono, Danny observes, is glaring back at the older man, running her fingers over the knuckles of her right hand. Her _split_ knuckles.

_"Good for you," _Danny thinks, because, if nothing else, Joe definitely deserved this. For all the shit he's put Steve through. For leaving Steve behind. For...

"Steve's... alive?" he repeats Kono's earlier assertion, voice catching as he is suddenly terrified of even daring to hope.

Joe nods tightly, dispelling the fear, and Danny huffs out a deep shuddering breath, the sudden rush of relief leaving him light-headed. He needs to sit down. Now. Before his trembling legs give way.

He must have swayed, because there's suddenly a chair being pushed against the back of his knees and he is being guided into it by Kono's firm, gentle hands.

"Danny?" She's squatting down before him, her face creased in concern, and she puts her hand on his knee, as if afraid that he might keel over if she doesn't keep him steady.

"I'm okay, it's okay," he croaks out, feeling like the emotional equivalent of a cooked egg – boiled raw, thrown into a tub of freezing water and then stripped clean of its protective shell. "J'st... adrenaline dump... is all."

He forces a shaky smile for Kono's benefit, shifts his gaze back to Joe. "Explain," he grinds out, frustratingly unable to generate more than one word at a time.

"The execution was faked," Joe says, looking like a kicked puppy with its tail between its legs.

"Faked." Danny feels like his brain is about to implode. "Why the..."

"The Mexicans were out for blood," the SEAL shrugs, wincing at the poor choice of words, while Danny forces down another convulsive swallow. "The pro-death penalty sentiment in the country was already growing, and this... our rescue attempt..." Joe stumbles again, giving Danny an awkward look. "There were several guards killed in the process and then the escaped prisoners... It ... uh... it didn't go over well with the masses. The politicians decided they wanted to save face."

"And make an example of Steve," Danny murmurs, remembering something the reporter said.

Joe nods, jutting his jaw to the side. "We... uh... Doris and I," he amends, looking anywhere but at Danny, "we tried pulling all kinds of strings, but they wouldn't budge. So... we decided a bit of subterfuge was in order."

"Subterfuge."

"They were firing blanks."

Danny shakes his head, trying to understand what it is that he's missing. Because the explanation still doesn't make sense. "So the news cast ... that was a ruse, too?"

Joe frowns, throwing another uncomfortable look Kono's way. "No, that... that was real," he admits reluctantly. "As far as the State of Mexico is concerned, the execution went off without a hitch. The only people who know differently are an ex-CIA agent and the prison warden whom that agent paid to replace live ammunition with blanks and then help get Steve outside the compound." He sighs. "We suspected that the execution will get a pretty big coverage in the news. I just hoped I'd be able to talk to you before you... you know."

"Thought that Steve was dead," Danny clarifies, and he can't help the bitterness that seeps into his voice.

"I'm sorry," Joe repeats, and Danny nods absently, rubbing his hand down his face, as he wills himself to pull together. His mind is still reeling, his soul still feels scrubbed raw, but there's hope now, where before there was just a dreary, viscous sea of hopeless gloom.

"Where's Steve now?" he asks, raising his gaze to meet Joe's once more.

The older man glances back at the screen above the Smart Table that Danny now realizes is showing a map of Mexico.

"Doris is taking the back roads to get him out of Mexico and into Guatemala. We've got a military base there near the border. At her last check-in they were about 3 hours away." He turns back to Danny, his expression schooled into a carefully neutral mask that sets off all kinds alarms in Danny's head. "A cargo plane will be waiting for them at the base to take them to Oahu."

"That's another 10 hours of flight," Grover speaks up suddenly, a worried crease furrowing his brow. "Are they gonna treat him at the base first?"

"About seven, actually, at top speed," Joe corrects him automatically. "And, no, Doris doesn't think the medical facilities at the base will be able to handle his injuries, and she doesn't want to waste any more time before getting to Tripler."

And just like that Danny's timidly burgeoning hope plummets back into the dark recesses of despair. "H-how bad is he?" he inquires shakily, pushing himself out of the chair.

The SEAL cringes, shifting awkwardly before him. His mouth opens, then closes with an audible click as he seems to consider the people before him.

"Joe?" he nudges, a growled out cross between a question and a warning.

Joe heaves out a long, heavy sigh, shakes his head with an air of grim resignation. "He was shot twice," he offers reluctantly, arms crossed defensively on his chest. "Once from a fairly close range - a through and through, from what I could see. Abdominal, pretty nasty." His gaze bores into Danny and he adds almost regretfully, "The conditions he was kept in weren't very sanitary, as you know, so..."

"Infection," Danny finishes the unspoken thought, as memories of his own four-day stay in that putrid hellhole of puke, piss and blood assault his senses. "How...," his voice gives out on him, so he swallows, licks his painfully dry lips and tries again. "How bad?"

Joe's dark expression is answer enough. Steve is alive, but there's no guarantee he'll stay this way even long enough to make it to the hospital. The thought scrapes viciously against the still bleeding wound that news of Steve's death had gouged in his soul.

He blows out a shaky breath and squares his shoulders against the possibility of his worst fear yet coming true. "I want to be there when he lands," he grinds out, breathless.

Joe merely nods.

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

Heat is wrapped around him like a thick, oppressive blanket – disgustingly sticky and suffocating. Every slow tortuous breath he manages to take feels like he's sucking on fire, and his lungs scream in protest with every gulp of searing, choking air.

He wants to shout, to howl out his pain to the world, but the world churns and coils around him – oblivious, indifferent, distant – and his cries are left unheeded.

He burns. Oh, God, he burns! _"Help me!... Somebody help me, PLEASE!" _

Hands are suddenly on him, clutching his shoulders, pushing him down – deeper and deeper into the ravenous, unforgiving fire that is devouring his body. _"No, please..."_ He writhes within a painful grip, sobbing soundlessly for the salvation he knows isn't coming. _"Please... Danny..."_

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

He watches from the doorway as Doris leans over Steve's fever-ravaged form, her hands planted firmly on his trembling shoulders, pinning him down. Steve twists weakly within her touch, his flushed, sweat-stained face scrunching up as if in pain, lips moving noiselessly underneath the oxygen mask.

He swallows thickly, clears his throat.

"Maybe... uh... maybe I should take over now," he offers, as she turns to glare coldly at him. "Looks like you could both use a break."

"I need to be with my son," she snaps, turning her attention back to Steve. "He is responding to my touch, my voice. He needs family beside him."

He scoffs, trying his best to filter the words that threaten to slip past his already severely depleted self-control. "He already has family beside him," he counters, eyes burning holes in the back of her head. "One that has never betrayed him and stood by him when it counted. And, with all due respect, Doris, his response to you seems to be pain."

She straightens out then, slowly, deliberately. Favors him with a dark, withering glare. "Steve wouldn't _**be**_ in pain if it weren't for you, _**Daniel**_," she retorts, her lips twisting into an ugly, disdainful sneer. "With all due respect."

She walks out then, bumping his shoulder as she passes, and he is left reeling in the wake of her parting shot. The words cutting straight through his heart, as they are the very same ones that have haunted him every waking and non-waking hour. His fault. Because Steve wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for him. Because none of this would have even happened had he done the responsible thing and arrested Matty back when he had the chance.

He sighs shakily and steps over to the bed, perching himself carefully on the edge of it. Steve is restless beside him, moaning slightly in his unconscious sleep, forehead creasing in pain.

Danny reaches over, runs his fingertips gently over the fever-flushed skin, lets his hand rest against the clammy cheek.

"Shhh, babe," he soothes, voice soft. "It's okay. It's all gonna be okay." He smiles affectionately, as his partner turns unconsciously into his touch, calming almost instantly. Finds it amusing that the contact has an equally settling effect on him as well. "Goof..."

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

_He watches Steve face his executioners, a calm, resigned smile on his face. The rifles are readied, and he starts running toward him, shouting his name. Steve looks up and their eyes meet for the briefest of seconds, before a deafening rumble of gunfire rips through the air. Puffs of smoke from several rifles momentarily obscure his vision, and when they clear Steve is lying motionless on the ground, dark crimson blood seeping into the dirty, compacted sand._

"NOOOOOO!"

He jackknifes into a seating position, heart beating savagely against his ribcage, as he blinks rapidly at the familiar contours of Steve's living room bathed in nighttime gloom. It takes him a moment to come back, to anchor himself in the here and now, and he runs a trembling hand down his sweat-covered face, as he waits for his breathing to settle down to something closer to normal.

He is done sleeping for the night, that's for sure. And when he finally feels steady enough, he pushes himself off the couch and walks into the kitchen to get some water. A partially opened door to the lanai grabs his attention, and he squints past it to the two wooden chairs on the beach, unsurprised to see one of them occupied.

It's Wednesday. Three days since Steve was deemed well enough to be released from the hospital. Almost two weeks since he was first brought in to Tripler, unresponsive and with a near record-breaking fever. Almost two weeks since Danny was certain he was going to lose him for the second time in so many days. Things have definitely gone uphill since then.

Even as far as the fate of Five-0 is concerned. Yes, they are still suspended, but governor Denning finally decided to take his head out of his proverbial ass and put his trust back in his task force. Judging by the information Danny's been getting, Chin's release is now, too, only a matter of time.

So, yeah, things are good. And if it weren't for the fact that Steve still can't walk the few steps from the couch to the front door without tiring himself out or that neither one of them seems to be able to get through the night without bolting from the bed in the middle of a nightmare, things would have gone from good to wonderful in a heartbeat.

Squinting into the pale darkness outside the glass doors, he considers the slumped form of his partner in the distance, lips pursed in thought and worry. Then, decision made, he heads for the refrigerator, takes out two bottles of water and walks out onto the beach.

He hands him a bottle by way of greeting and lowers himself carefully into the chair beside him. It is a scene that has repeated itself often over the past few days, and neither of them needs to talk to acknowledge the other's presence. It is noticed, expected, appreciated, understood. They need not spoil it with empty words.

Still, today... today Danny has something he wants (_**needs**_) to say.

"You know, for the longest time after Matty's death I felt lost," he begins hoarsely, eyes fixed on the dark waters before them, shimmering softly in the pale light of the moon. " I felt like a stranger inside my own body, and I kept looking out at this life that didn't seem ... right anymore, didn't seem _mine_. I couldn't figure out what it was that I wanted or needed from it or... or even how to live it."

He trails off, gathering his thoughts. Steve remains silent and still beside him, but Danny knows he's listening. Can hear it in the slightly strained, uneven breaths. He continues.

"Then I heard that newscaster talk about your execution, and I realized two things very clearly. One – that I knew _**exactly**_ what I wanted from life, and two – that I will never again get a chance to have it."

He cuts a glance to Steve, who chooses that exact moment to meet his gaze. His partner's face is still partially obscured by the darkness, but Danny can see him much clearer now that they are so close. The look in Steve's eyes is a perfect mirror of his own haunted soul, and he smiles ruefully at the thought of just how broken the two of them are.

Silence must have stretched between them longer than he had intended, for Steve suddenly speaks up, his voice just as rough and shaky as Danny's own.

"What was it?"

"Huh?" Lost in thought, Danny doesn't realize right away what it is that Steve is asking him about.

"The thing you wanted."

_"Oh." _ "This," Danny replies, his voice soft and heartfelt, as he gestures to the space around them. "Years and years more of this. Of sitting beside you in this very chair, drinking beer and watching the sun set after a long day's work. Of you helping me scare shitless every boy who tries to put moves on Grace. Of you keeping me from losing it when she finally finds the right one and stops being my little girl. Of ranting at you for beating a perp with your camo-paint metal walker, because you'll remain a Neanderthal animal even well into your geezerhood. Of ... of growing old together."

He pauses on a convulsive, watery intake of breath, blinking rapidly against the gathering moisture.

"When I thought that... that I lost you and that I will never get to have those things, I..."

He trails off once more, chancing another glance at his friend. Steve watches him intently, his own eyes suspiciously bright in the dark stillness.

"I never want to feel how I felt at that moment, Steve," he tells him with raw, heart-laid-out-on-a-platter kind of honestly, urging him to understand.

Steve does, and Danny can feel his partner's warm fingers wrap around his forearm, as Steve bridges the small gap between them in a wordless show of understanding and support.

"Where will _you_ be?" he asks suddenly after a long moment of companionable silence, and Danny turns to look at him, frowning in confusion.

"What?"

Steve looks back at him, a soft, mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Where will you be, Danno, when I'm out there pummeling a perp with my walker?"

The genuine smile and the familiar light ribbing are the best soothing balm to his still aching heart. He smiles back, watching his partner's grin widen happily, his whole face lighting up in response.

"I'll be watching from the sidewalk in my tricked-out electric scooter, babe, waiting to chase after him if he manages to give your old ass the slip."

Steve's eyebrows rise comically at that, even as his grip on Danny's hand tightens almost imperceptibly.

"How come you get an electric scooter, while I'm stuck with a simple walker?" he asks, almost pouting.

Danny reaches with his other hand, places it on top of Steve's, patting it in mock consolation. "That's because you tend to break things that are nice and expensive, babe. Plus the governor will still like me more than you."

* * *

><p><strong>FIN<strong>

_Not to sappy, I hope... _


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N **Yeah, so I kinda retreated from fanfic writing there for a while. I figured I needed a bit of time to regroup, get my inspiration back (no thanks to the show, unfortunately), because the story I was writing just plain stalled on me. And then this story pops into my head, and, well, I had to go with it - because once that writing itch hits, you can't stop until you get it out of your system :)

I hope you enjoy this newest foray into the "Brothers" universe. No plot, just good old whump, angst and bromance (as always).

Thank you to TheDogo for her quick beta!

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><p>Whrrrr... click... BANG!<p>

He flinches, as another bullet cuts through the semi-dark arena, burying itself in the wall. Closer. Another damn inch closer to where he is sitting, trussed up like a lamb for the slaughter.

He doesn't understand it. Doesn't get how a day that started out so perfect (just him and Grace and plans for a fun-filled father and daughter trip to the zoo after stuffing themselves full of toasted blueberry pancakes with rich maple syrup) could turn so ass-backwards only hours later. Grace had left her phone in the house, and he let her run back inside to get it. He had been waiting for her by the car when it happened: a screech of tires, the sound of a van's sliding door grating open, a muffled pop and the sensation of something sharp punching him in the back of the shoulder.

He doesn't remember much after that. Whatever sedative they used for the tranquilizer dart they shot him with was an efficient concoction that knocked him out instantly. He woke up here, in this round windowless room. Sitting in a metal chair with his wrists and neck held in thick metal restraints. His only companion – a modified M2 Browning machine gun that sat across the room from him, fitted on a turret that moved its barrel automatically every five seconds, allowing it to sight on a new spot. Each shot bringing the barrel that much closer to bearing on his position.

Whrrrr... click... BANG!

He swears, loud and helpless in his anger. Because in a few minutes his brief stint as a shooting target will be over and his goose – officially cooked. And he doesn't even really know why. He has a vague memory of a smug voice gloating into his ear: about him being the first; about this being the beginning of the end; no more 5-0. He doesn't know who it was. Wasn't awake enough to even make sense of the words. And now... Now all he can do is pray. That somehow, by some miracle, his team will find him before his time runs out. Even though with each consecutive shift of the barrel his hope dims, slipping further and further into a dark abyss of despair.

Whrrrr... click... BANG!

He closes his eyes, thanks whatever gods are listening that Grace had forgotten her cell phone that morning. Because he is afraid to think of what might have happened to her if she had been with him when he was taken. This way, at least, he knows she's safe. Alone, yes. Scared, quite possibly. But safe. And she's a smart little monkey, he knows. She's probably already called her uncle Steve, alerted him that something was wrong. And Steve and the team are most likely out there, looking for him. The problem is, and that's Danny's default ultra-pessimist hope-for-the-best-expect-the-worst side talking, there are hardly any clues about his abduction. The hit was swift, professional, and he doubts his team has anything to go on. Doubts that they'll be able to do anything to stop the inevitable. He can only hope the others and Grace will be spared.

Whrrrr... click... BANG!

"Danny!"

His eyes fly open and he stares, open-mouthed and disbelieving, as his partner bursts through a side door only seconds after another bullet slams into the wall not even ten feet from where he is sitting. Steve hesitates a moment in the doorway, his gaze narrowing assessingly on the gun turret, as if he's trying to decide whether or not he can stop it.

Danny knows he can't. He had seen enough of that contraption over the past half hour or so to know that, whoever made it, wanted to make sure the weapon would be nearly impossible to stop. The weapon is encased in a metal dome-shaped frame, and there are no outside controls that he had been able to see.

Steve has, apparently, reached the same conclusion, for he is now sprinting toward him, his sweat-covered face – a mixture of worry and relief.

Danny swallows dryly, drinking in the unexpected but oh so unbelievably welcome sight. Thousands of questions swirl around in his head, stumbling one over the other.

"H-how?" is all he is finally able to stammer out, as Steve drops to his knees before him, setting his weapon on the floor beside him.

His partner doesn't reply right away, his hands running gently over Danny's bound form, searching for injuries.

"Grace called," he says finally, raising his gaze to meet Danny's, his right hand stilling on Danny's knee, as if unwilling to relinquish contact. He looks nervous, unsettled. So distressingly unlike Steve that it makes something warm uncurl deeply inside him, tickling his throat. "She saw the car and a partial license plate. We tracked them down."

_Good girl,_ Danny thinks. Then remembers the self-assured, venom-dripping voice. "And they talked?" He cringes at the note of disbelief in his voice. It's unwarranted, and he really doesn't mean it to come out so skeptical. It's just hard for him to reconcile that smug hatred with the apparent ease with which his team was able to get the guys to confess.

Steve's expression morphs into something cold and deadly, his jaw muscles tightening as he grinds out a stony "I _made_ them talk."

Danny blinks, as the implication of Steve's words sinks in. His mouth forms a half-surprised, half-bewildered "Oh". But he doesn't get a chance to formulate a reply.

Whrrrr... click... BANG!

They both jump, as a bullet whizzes by, uncomfortably close.

"Can you...," he pauses, licking his dry lips, as Steve twists his head in the direction of the gun, his hand still clutching Danny's knee. "Do you think you can stop pawing at me for a few minutes and get me out of these things?"

Steve huffs out a strangled, half-chuckled "yeah" and starts pounding away at the first wrist restraint with the butt of his Sig.

He is already working on the second wrist lock, when the turret shifts again. There's a pop of a bullet exiting the barrel, and an instant later Danny cries out, as a sharp pain rips through his left upper arm.

"Danny, what–?"

Steve stops what he's doing, panicked hands grasping his injured limb just below the wound. "Shit!"

"J-jus' get me ...out of here," Danny chuffs out through clenched teeth, because a .50 caliber bullet leaves behind a substantial hole and it hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. But at least he's still alive to feel it. Which he won't be in about five seconds, when that turret shifts another few inches to the left.

Steve nods tightly, his mouth set in a grim, determined line. In the next second Danny's other hand is free, and his partner starts hacking away furiously at the last remaining clamp that encircles his neck.

He manages to get in about five solid, brutal hits, and Danny can already feel the lock breaking. Another second and he'll be free.

That's when their time runs out.

He hears the whirring noise of the gun turret making yet another shift. Hears the warning click of the weapon readying to fire. And he freezes, heart sinking, because he's not free yet, can't move out of the way with his neck held in place. And this is it.

He seeks out Steve, who turns his head toward the weapon, alerted by the telltale noise. He opens his mouth, wants to say goodbye. But Steve looks back at him suddenly, wild-eyed and resolute, and shifts, sliding on his knees in front Danny just as the gun barks angrily, releasing its deadly load.

Steve's body jerks with impact, and he gasps, falling forward into Danny's space, his arms digging convulsively into the sides of the chair to brace himself. Their gazes meet for one impossible time-suspended second: the horrified realization in Danny's, the calm acceptance in Steve's. And then Steve's body shudders, his gaze dims, and he collapses the rest of the way onto Danny, his head falling limply into the crook of Danny's neck.

"No." Danny's huffed out denial is soft at first, his hands going reflexively around his partner's body, freezing in shock and disbelief, as his fingertips brush against the steadily flowing sticky wetness there. "No, no, no, no!"

Releasing his hold on Steve, he grabs his friend's gun, twists awkwardly under Steve's weight and rams the butt of the weapon into the partially broken lock. Once, twice. The turret whirrs again, and Danny curls his fingers tightly around the neck restraint, pulls at it with all his might, and the broken lock gives way.

He doesn't hesitate. Wrapping his arms once more around his partner, he shoves them both down onto the floor, just as the weapon barks again, the bullet imbedding itself in the chair where his head was only seconds ago.

Danny ignores the weapon. It can't harm them now, they're outside its range. But the damage... the damage's already been done.

He bites his lip, rips off his outer shirt and slides it gently under Steve's back. The movement rouses the unconscious man, and he moans softly, his forehead creasing in pain.

"Easy, easy, babe," Danny soothes, trembling fingers cupping Steve's cheek. "Let me just find your phone and–"

He trails off, as Steve turns feebly into his touch, pale eyelids fluttering open to half-mast. Steve's hand reaches clumsily toward him, and he grasps it gently, leaning closer to his friend, his brother.

"What is it?" he asks gently, frowning, as Steve's eyelids begin to droop once more. "Hey, hey, Steve. Come on, babe. Stay with me here. Let me just make a call. I_-_"

Steve blinks at him sluggishly, his gaze pain-dulled, unfocused. "You're... worried...," he slurs, lips twisting into a weak semblance of a smile. "...Y'r eyes... 'r so... blue when you're... w'rried... Like th'... ocean..."

Danny swallows, forcing down an inexplicably painful lump. "You're losing it, McGarrett," he rasps out grumpily. He wants to add something else, but the rest of the words seize in his throat, as he realizes that Steve's eyes had drifted close once more and the hand he'd been clasping so desperately had gone terrifyingly limp in his grasp.

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

The house is quiet, seems empty. But Steve's home, he knows. Kono had called him earlier to tell him that McGarrett had signed out AMA and she had to almost blackmail him to let her drive him home. Not unexpected, by any means. Not as far as McGarrett is concerned. Still, Danny can't help the feeling of trepidation that grips him, when he walks through the sunlit rooms, calling Steve's name.

When no response greets his repeated calls, he tries his luck outside and shakes his head in exasperation, as he spots the familiar figure slumped forward in one of the wooden chairs. He blows out a tense breath and walks slowly forward, as if afraid of spooking the seated man.

He knows Steve sensed his approach, sees the way his shoulders tense slightly. He doesn't turn around though, doesn't acknowledge Danny's presence. Only his fingers clench tighter around the neck of the bottle he's holding in his hand. A fucking beer bottle.

"I don't think the doctors would have okayed you mixing alcohol with your meds there, buddy," he says gently, as he slides into the chair beside Steve.

Steve's jaw clenches, his gaze still stubbornly fixed on the endless watery horizon before him. "Didn't know you cared, Danno," he snaps tiredly, and, dammit, if the fucker doesn't raise the bottle to his lips and takes a deliberately long pull.

And, yeah, okay, maybe Danny does deserve it. His own wound having been tended to, he had walked out of the hospital the moment Steve began showing signs of waking and didn't return once, despite Chin and Kono's best efforts that involved everything from empathetic attempts at persuasion to outbursts of disappointment and anger. He understood them. Knew that what he was doing wasn't right, that, no matter how he tried to couch it, it amounted to plain old abandonment – something Steve already experienced enough times to last him a lifetime. Yet he couldn't bring himself to come back, had a near panic attack every time he even thought about coming to see his best friend again. Even now, when he, finally, FINALLY, grew a large enough pair to drive out here and try to mend the bridges he knew he had broken with his personal bouts of hysteria, his insides still twist into an anxious knot of irrational worry in Steve's presence. And isn't _that_ a rail over the head...

"I'm sorry," he rasps, and he means it, God, he means it. "Steve, I–"

"Why?"

The quiet question brings him up short, and Danny swallows tightly, running a nervous hand along the crease of his pant leg. He knows what Steve is asking, and he desperately hopes that he can make sense of the jumbled thoughts inside his head enough to explain it to him. Because Steve needs that explanation, deserves it. And because Danny had been a jerk.

He says that last part out loud.

Steve nods pensively in silent acknowledgment of his assessment, still refusing to look at him. Danny echoes the nod, leaning forward in a mirror of Steve's pose.

"I tried to come see you," he begins hoarsely, the fingers of his right hand twitching with a sudden desire to curl into a jittery fist. "I did. But every time I... I kept seeing your face when..." He takes a breath, swallows again, dry, convulsive. "You took a bullet for me, Steve," he forces out finally, heart hammering in his chest as he is getting, at last, to the root of his problem. "You _died _in my arms. I felt your heart stop. I... You died for me."

Steve gives him a long sideways glance, but remains silent, his face carefully shuttered. Danny looks away, suddenly very interested in a small speck of dust that's clinging to his pants.

"I keep seeing your face when that bullet hit you," he continues, his voice almost too low to be heard over the soft rustle of the waves. "In my dreams, when I wake... all the time. Except in my dreams it's worse... In my dreams they don't... they don't get to us in time." He slams his eyes shut, fists curled so tightly that the skin on the inside of his palms begins to burn, broken by his nails. "I couldn't... I couldn't deal. I'm sorry."

He's done. He's got no more words, just a persistent, unbearable burning in his throat that threatens to spill over into his eyes. He keeps them closed, just in case. The last thing he needs now is to start bawling in front of his best friend. His best friend, who remains suspiciously silent after his jumbled confession.

He risks a glance at his friend, when he grows tired of hearing nothing but the lapping of waves against the shore.

Steve meets his gaze, searches for something there. "I don't regret what I did," he tells him finally, sounding both defiant and hurt.

"I know." Danny nods, gives him a weak, lopsided smile. "I know you wouldn't hesitate to risk your life for... for any of us. But..." He sucks in another breath, blows it out noisily, shakily. "You scared the hell out of me, Steve. I thought... I thought I'd lost you."

Steve leans wearily back in his chair, winces as his still healing back comes in contact with the hard wood. "So you panicked and ran," he sums up dryly. "Not your brightest idea, Danny."

"No," Danny agrees with a pained laugh, "no, it wasn't. Running away from my problems has never been a thing for me. Guess you've been rubbing off on me more than I realized." The dig is light, and Steve's responding smile, no matter how tiny, warms his heart.

He grows serious again, reaching out hesitantly for his friend's hand. Steve doesn't pull away, and Danny takes it as a good sign, moving to wrap his fingers gently around the taller man's palm.

"When I thought you d...died...," he stumbles over the dreaded word, grits his teeth to regroup. "I didn't realize how much it would hurt. I... I didn't handle it well." He bites his lip, as his eyes are starting to burn again from the prickle of tears. "I never meant to hurt you, babe. I'm sorry."

Steve twists his hand under Danny's, squeezes back. "I'm touched that you were worried about me, Danno," he says, voice hoarse and strained with pain. "But if you're gonna freak out like that every time I–"

"I won't," Danny hurries to reassure him, then backpedals with an awkward shrug. "At least I'll try not to. But you have to promise me something too."

Steve raises an eyebrow at him, the blue eyes growing guarded once more, and Danny shakes his head with a fond but prudently silent _"Idiot"._

"I need you to promise that you'll do your best to stay here ... with us, that you'll take better care of yourself."

Steve's expression softens, the remaining tension bleeding away. "I'll try," he hedges, his eyelids drooping with fatigue.

Danny smiles at him affectionately, gives his hand one final squeeze and stands up, Steve's hand still cradled gently in his.

"How about you start with heading back into the house and getting some shuteye, huh, SuperSEAL?"

He gets a brief, tired nod and leans forward to grasp Steve's elbow with his other hand before pulling the man carefully to his feet. "Easy, easy there, SuperSEAL," he grunts, as Steve sways on his feet, his weight bearing on him a bit too heavily at once. "I got you, I got you. Hang on."

He wraps his arm firmly around Steve's waist, lingers a moment to let the taller man get his bearings.

Steve is pale as wallpaper paste, but he manages a tight nod at Danny's worried, "You good to go, babe?"

"Alright then," Danny acknowledges with forced cheerfulness, and nods at the beer Steve's still clutching absently in his right hand. "And you might as well leave that bottle here, McGarrett. You ain't getting any more beer on my watch. You got a promise to keep."

They hobble slowly back to the house, Steve's wearily huffed out "bossy haole" putting a light-hearted, easy smile on Danny's face, the first one in weeks.

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><p><em>There it is. Now, hopefully, on to my other stories :)<em>


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N I did say something about not letting any more one-shots interfere with the larger stories? I did, didn't I. Ugh. I swear, my muse has gone certifiably insane. Whumping Steve is, apparently, as important as breathing now. So, here you go, another installment for the "Brothers" universe. More whump, more angst, more comfort (well, maybe not so much on the comfort side here... hmmm, well, you'll see what I mean).**

**I hope you enjoy it and, as always, I'm very much looking forward to your thoughts, comments, reviews! Thank you!**

**Thank you to my poor beta for helping put the stubborn tenses back in their place. I love you, my dear!**

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><p>He stumbles out into the fresh morning air, his legs shaking so badly that they refuse to support him any longer and he soon finds himself crumpling to the ground, his knees hitting the soft, dew-covered grass. The cabin looms behind him, dark and menacing, its fetid, blood-spattered interior haunting him even out here into the peaceful, sunlit clearing. But it can't hurt him. Not anymore. Because they're dead. All of them.<p>

So is he, for that matter. He has to acknowledge that as, at the very least, a highly likely outcome, as he takes a brief, foggy stock of his own injuries. There are many. And they're bad. Enough so that he can already feel his body begin to shut down as it slowly surrenders to shock.

But he's free now. At least there's that...

He sinks back onto his heels, runs a trembling hand over his face, unsurprised when it comes away bloody. His other hand is clutching a phone he had lifted off one of his torturers. There was a reason he took it, he thinks dully. There's something he needs to do. Someone he needs to call. To say... _what? _ He doesn't remember. But it's something important, he thinks. Something that's been on his mind all these hours, days, weeks that he's been held here, in that dank, windowless room. Beaten, tortured, threatened, beaten again. Until he couldn't remember the something anymore. Until it no longer mattered.

_"Snap out of it, Super SEAL!" _barks a voice in his head. Familiar. Safe. _Danny, _floats out from within the twisted, tangled recesses of his scrambled mind. He latches on to it like to a lifeline.

"Danny," he whispers, shaking uncooperative fingers fumbling with an unfamiliar phone, as he tries to pull the number from his jumbled memory. "Danny..."

The phone rings... too many times for him to count, and he already begins to despair that Danny isn't there, that he dialed it wrong. His awareness wavers, and he doesn't register the click of the call being accepted, doesn't realize the ringing stopped until he hears a tense, gruff, "Williams," come from the other end of the line.

He blinks fuzzily, unsure for a moment if what he heard was right. The voice on the other end barks out the name once more, impatient, and he forces himself to speak, suddenly terrified that Danny is going to hang up on him any moment now.

"Danny, w-wait..." It comes out as a weak, gasping rasp, and, at first, he's not even sure that Danny heard him. Until he hears a sharp intake of breath, followed by a quivering, uncertain, "Steve?"

It feels so good, the knowledge that Danny's there, that he heard him, that he's no longer alone. The relief of it is a dizzying swell that crashes over him and seeps deep into his bones, turning them to mush. He wobbles unsteadily, fighting to stay upright. It is a losing battle, however, and it's a testament to how much he really is out of it that he doesn't realize he's fallen backwards until he finds himself squinting up at the clear blue sky.

There's a persistent droning somewhere by his ear, an intense, worried buzz. _The phone_, his brain supplies listlessly. _Danny. _He strains to pull his hand closer to his ear, hears the end of a loud, panicked, "–answer me, goddammit!"

"M'here, Danny," he exhales into the phone, and almost laughs at the stunned silence that follows. _Ladies and gentlemen, mark this moment in history! I have managed to quiet the unsilenceable Danny Williams._

The silence doesn't last long, though, and Steve is glad for it. Because he loves hearing Danny's voice. Because he missed it. Because he's not likely to hear it ever again.

"Steve, where are you, babe? Can you tell me where you are? Are you safe? Are you okay?"

The frantic rapid-fire of questions is too much for his foggy brain, but he thinks he can at least respond to some of it. Honestly, because there's really no point in trying to pretend right now.

"Not... doing s-so g... good, Danny," he murmurs, and feels a pang of guilt at the anxious hiss he hears from the other man.

"It's gonna be alright, babe," Danny promises with forced cheerfulness. "I've got Kono tracing the number now. We're gonna be there before you know it. You just hang on, you hear? ...McGarrett? Steve?!"

He blinks sluggishly up at the brilliant blue of the firmament, feeling his eyelids grow more and more unwieldy with each passing second, his vision fading in and out. He needs to say something before it grows dark completely, along with his other senses.

"D'nny," he slurs, his lips growing numb. "I m-missed you, brother... L'love you..."

He hears Danny start to say something, but his hand grows too heavy for him to keep holding it up. He lets it drop, the phone slipping out of his nerveless fingers, thumping softly against the ground.

His clothes are heavy, too, soaked through with blood that continues to seep into the dew-splashed grassy carpet underneath him, painting the young green stalks a bright deep crimson.

He shivers, gasps futilely for breath, and lets his eyes slide closed for the last time. _Bye, brother..._

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

It was supposed to be a quick assignment. In and out. A last minute subterfuge cooked up by the geniuses at Naval Intelligence after their planned arrest of one of the Navy's finest-turned-traitor went sideways. They desperately needed someone to step in to "negotiate" the sale of highly classified government materials that was set in motion by the currently deceased naval officer and they couldn't think of anyone better than McGarrett. Something about Steve being the best man for the job and about a favor he, supposedly, owed them. For Colombia, they said.

Danny opened his mouth to object then, because he knew, he _knew_ that what Steve did for him in Colombia (twice!) would come with a cost, and he'd be damned if he let McGarrett pay for his own screw-ups. Steve silenced him, though, with a simple, "I'll do it." And that was that. The NI suits beamed happily at him and went on to give them the details of the upcoming deal – whatever little they knew about it, and what Steve's job would be. Simple, they said. Get in, give them the file with fake documents and a government issue tracking device, memorize as many of the faces and names as possible, get out.

Only it wasn't simple. It never was with those guys. And Danny should have insisted more, should've argued, tied McGarrett down, if it came to it. But he didn't. And now Steve was gone.

By the time the team moves in, the only things left behind at the long-abandoned warehouse are the torn up folder with a smashed tracker, a rapidly cooling body of one Fikri Hakim – his neck snapped viciously to the side, and bloody drag marks leading out the back door. That blood, Max later confirms grimly, is Steve's.

Since then, there's no news, no leads, nothing. It's as if their friend has disappeared off the face of the earth and nobody, NOBODY, has any idea where to even start looking for him.

Still, 5-0 is relentless. Steve is 'ohana, the closest they've got, the closest _**Danny's**_ got, and they're not about to let him go. They search every nook, dive and cranny, cast as wide a net as they possibly can. But nobody's seen or heard anything, and their search grows more desperate as it becomes more fruitless.

Danny loses his shit after week one. After one of the NI guys comes back to offer his condolences and to ask them, in the unlikely event they do hear anything back from Steve, to immediately let them know. Danny pounces on the guy before the latter even manages to get the last word out. By the time Chin drags him away, the guy's nose and a couple of teeth are broken, and Danny's hand is throbbing viciously in tandem with his pounding heart.

He ends up having to get it casted later. He doesn't care. Because when they find Steve, Danny will make the stupid bastard pay his medical bill.

Week two goes by, and the cast is the least of Danny's medical problems. He can't sleep. Can't eat. He gets migraine-like headaches almost on a daily basis, and he's been popping ibuprofen like they're goddamn Tic Tacs. When they find Steve, he's gonna put in for vacation. A long, LONG vacation. Preferably away from anything even remotely connected to Hawaii, the ocean or McGarrett's brand of crazy.

When they enter the middle of week three, Danny stops making plans for what he'll do once they find Steve. He just prays that they do. Every minute, every day, every hour. He keeps looking at his mockingly silent phone and prays to any and all deities who will listen. To, please, please, PLEASE, let them find Steve. He'll do anything. Please...

When his phone does ring two days later, it's an unknown number. He answers it distractedly, squinting up at the screen, where Kono's pulling up driver licenses of two truckers who were seen in the vicinity of the warehouse about the time that Steve was there. It's another dead end, but, at least, it gives them something to focus on.

There's silence on the other end, and Danny's about to hang up, because, really, he doesn't have the time or the patience for crank calls. Not when it's taking all of his willpower to even drag his ass to the office every morning.

And then he hears a broken rattle of a breath and his name, spoken in a faint, gasping murmur. And he nearly drops his phone.

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

It takes hours, it seems, until the Army Evac chopper finally lands on Molokai, in the middle of a large clearing, where they pinged the phone Steve called them from. Danny fidgets the entire flight. Because the phone he's been crushing in his hand has gone silent long ago. Because no matter how many times he tried calling out Steve's name, there had been no response. Because he can't help thinking that Steve called him to say goodbye. Because Steve's final, slurred out words are like a hot poker of guilt and despair, twisting in his heart. "_I m-missed you, brother... L'love you..."_

He jumps out, as soon as the helicopter touches down. Sprints across the windswept grass toward a human-shaped form he spotted from above. And stops, breathless and horrified, as he finally gets a closer look. Because there's blood. So, so much blood. Coating every inch of his friend, spreading out around his body like a crimson cape. Steve is perfectly still underneath that gruesome layer, eyes closed, peaceful. Dead.

There's a low, keening sound that floats through the charged air between them, and it takes Danny a moment to realize the sound is coming from him. He takes a trembling, wobbly step forward and drops down to his knees, straight into the blood-tinged grass beside his friend. Chin's strong arms around his shoulders are the only things that prevent him from crumpling all the way down onto the bloodied form before him.

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

The doctors don't bother hiding their surprise, when Steve makes it through the 24-hour window after surgery. They caution against hoping for too much, however. Because the damage was great, too great, and they've done all they could.

They change their tune to cautiously optimistic, after Steve continues to stubbornly hang on day after day, his vitals slowly dragging their way toward the normal range. It's a miracle, they say, for someone with his level of physical trauma and blood loss. A miracle is right, Danny thinks, as he scoots his chair closer to his friend's bed, picks up the limp, bruised hand, and settles in for the night. Just like he's done the previous night. And every single night before then.

Because he can't go to sleep without hearing the reassuring beep of the heart monitor, telling him that Steve is, in fact, alive. Because he needs Steve to be the first thing he lays eyes on every morning to soothe his nerves and chase away his nightmare-riddled sleep. Because he needs to be able to feel the weight of the calloused hand in his, to be able to squeeze it gently and wait, as patiently, as he can, until Steve can finally squeeze it back. Because he needs to be here when Steve finally claws his way back to the world of the living, to welcome him, to hug the stuffing out of him and never EVER let him go.

Because... "I love you, too, you stupid, Neanderthal animal. I love you, too."

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><p><em><strong>I thought I'd end it here. You can fill in the rest :)<strong>_


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N Okay, okay, so I know that by now some of you probably groan out loud when you see a new story from me pop up in your mailbox: Not Again... I'm sorry, okay? Really. This is the last one (for a while, at least), I promise. In my defense, the idea (albeit vague) for this installment was already in place when I was writing the previous chapter of this universe.**

**This particular one-shot ... it's something that's been on my mind since season finale, and I know... I KNOW that I'm probably gonna get some flak for this. Because not everybody sees things this way, not everybody expects the same things. But this is my universe. My playground. So I hope you can respect playground rules and not pounce on the author if you don't agree with the way the jungle gym has been set up. **

**Alright... on with the show. ****This is for a guest who asked for angst. It may not be exactly what you were asking for, but I think it should satisfy in the angst department. Oh, and, of course, I couldn't write an angsty piece without adding just a little bit of whump (just a bit this time, truly, I swear).**

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><p>Danny pulls open the door to his apartment, slams it behind him in frustration. Keys flung angrily onto the nearby console table, he flops onto the couch and stares grimly at the opposite wall as if it's all the damn wall's fault.<p>

This whole week has been one miserable, fucked up occurrence after another. His bone marrow transplant procedure was performed two days ago, but his hip is still giving him trouble, which doesn't help his mood any. Rachel has been cooped up at the hospital by Charlie's side and has been avoiding his calls like leprosy. Mainly the subject of telling Charlie who his real father is. To make matters worse, Grace is now starting to ask questions, uncomfortable questions. About him and Rachel, about Charlie, about herself, what it all means. And he can't give her the answers, because he doesn't know them himself. Because his world has been turned upside down, and it's been weeks since Rachel's grand revelation and he still, STILL doesn't know which way is up.

So, yeah, he's been a bit on edge these past few days, he admits. He's got all this tension and frustration building up inside him. Tension and frustration that he wants to dump onto Rachel's head, where they rightfully belong, along with a few bucketfuls of choice swill. But Rachel made herself unavailable to him. So he ends up unloading it all on Steve. Because Steve's there. Because Steve did one of his crazy daredevil takedowns once again and managed to get himself injured, thus providing Danny with a perfectly legitimate reason to vent... er, rant.

And, boy, did he rant. Vociferously and with great relish. To his heart's content. And McGarrett listened. Not like he had much of a choice, really, sitting there on the back bumper of the ambulance, watching him dazedly, while the EMTs worked on wrapping his ribs and tending to the large gash across his right forearm and a heavily bleeding cut above his temple.

Only Steve didn't respond. Didn't add the proverbial (and oh, so anticipated) fuel to Danny's smoldering ambers of discontent. He only flinched inexplicably at Danny's last-ditch bitter parting shot, "And don't expect me to pick you up from the hospital, McGarrett! Get your prodigal girlfriend to cart your doped up ass around!"

Of course, this was about the time that one of the EMTs dabbed a little too forcefully at that vicious looking cut above his eyebrow. So Danny wrote the flinch off to that.

Regardless, his need to unburden was left strangely unfulfilled. And as the doors of the ambulance were shut in Danny's face despite Steve's weakly mumbled protests that he was fine and didn't need a goddamn trip to the hospital, Danny's mood grew fouler still. Because, as irrational as it was, he felt like Steve had just weaseled out of their argument, the bastard. And Danny didn't get the satisfaction he felt he deserved.

So, after driving around aimlessly for what seemed like hours as he tried to cool off with limited success, here he is now. Brooding. With no one near for him to use as the wicker man for the lingering flames of anger burning inside him. He could try calling Rachel, he supposes. But he knows with about a 110 % certainty that she won't be picking up. Which would only serve to piss him off even more. So he doesn't call. Instead, he gets up long enough to grab a six-pack out of the fridge and plops right back onto the couch to resume his hateful contemplation of the wall.

He's on his second beer when his phone rings. Kono. He picks it up with a wary sigh. Kono was one of the unfortunate witnesses to his very public blow-up, and he steels himself for the inevitable questions and words of reproof. Because, yeah, even though he's still mad as hell, deep inside he knows that his anger has nothing to do with the SEAL and that he's got some apologizing to do in the near future. When he's ready. When he's cooled off enough.

Kono's actual question, a carefully and a bit anxiously worded desire to know if McGarrett made it home okay, takes him by surprise, however. And throws him right back into the realm of annoyance.

"How should I know?" he snaps. "Why does everyone automatically assume I'm the man's goddamn keeper?"

There's an uncomfortable silence on the other end, followed by a hesitant, "You ... didn't pick him up then?"

A tiny flicker of worry surfaces in the midst of a sea of irritation that fills him. He lets a surge of irritation pull it right back under.

"I thought I was pretty clear, Kalakaua," he all but growls, wincing as his hip chooses that moment to remind him (yet again) why he was so irritable to begin with. "I am done chauffeuring his thrill-seeking ass to and from emergency rooms. That's what girlfriends are for. So if you want to get an update on our banged up leader, I suggest you call Catherine."

"But Steve said..." Kono trails off, and Danny frowns when seconds tick off and there's no follow-through.

"What?" he prompts finally, impatience getting the better of him.

He hears Kono sigh – a reluctant capitulation.

"Chin and I stopped by the ER after we helped Duke secure the scene," she says finally, and there's a note of something in her voice, something that pings Danny's trouble radar big time.

He sets the bottle down, all of his attention now focused on the conversation as he waits for the other shoe to drop. Sure enough, it does.

"I saw Catherine drive away just as we were walking in, Danny."

"What?!" His mind actually stutters on that piece of news, and he doesn't even realize that he asked the question out loud until he hears Kono repeat her answer in a quieter and even more uncertain voice than before.

"I asked him about it, Danny," she adds, and he can almost see her shrug as she says the next words. "He just waved me off. Said something had come up and Catherine had to leave. Chin offered to give him a ride, but he said not to worry, that he called you and you'll be by to pick him up in a bit."

She pauses, as if waiting for him to respond, and all Danny can think is, _"He lied. He knew I wasn't coming. Why would he lie?"_

That annoying tingle of worry has now grown into a full-blown peal of alarm. He's already hopping off the couch, reaching for his keys, when Kono's slightly quivering voice pulls his attention back to the phone still clutched by his ear.

"I shouldn't have believed him, Danny. He looked... Something was off. I should've insisted..."

"Don't, Kono," he interrupts her, biting back on a rising swell of his own guilt. "You know how he is." And, dammit, so does he. And he should've known better than to go off on Steve today like he did. Because the man did seem quieter than usual this morning, more distracted. And Danny should've been more attuned to that, instead of being so completely wrapped up in his own crap that he didn't see that something was bothering his friend.

"I'm sure he's fine." Danny shakes his head even as he says it, believing in the truth of it about as much as he does in the concept of a bearded fat man in a red dress that breaks into people's homes by squeezing his jolly gift-bearing bulk through the much narrower chimney openings.

"I'm heading over there now to check up on him, just in case," he adds, already walking out the door. "I'll text you."

And he hangs up, his feet picking up speed as he now all but races toward his car.

**H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50**

The sun is barely a sliver above the watery horizon, a golden end crust of a warm, radiant loaf of a day. Danny throws the Camaro into park, forces himself not to run as he walks swiftly up the steps to McGarrett's front door.

Several fruitless rings and knocks later, Steve's spare house key in hand, he tests the door handle, spares a quick uneasy thought as to whether or not he should view it as a good sign that it's unlocked, pulls in a long, steadying breath and walks inside.

The house is somber, quiet. Evening shadows have crept in from out of the dark corners, slowly and deliberately engulfing almost the entire expanse of the spacious living room floor. It doesn't look like anyone's home, but Steve's got to be. Hasn't he?

Danny calls out his friend's name, flips the switch on the wall. Artificial light floods the twilight-wrapped room, pushing the dusk-born monster back into the far nooks and crevices where darkness reigns even when the sun is at its highest point in the sky. Blinking to adjust to the sudden change in lighting, he takes a few steps forward, squinting myopically at the unexpectedly empty space before him.

"Steve?" he calls out hesitantly, his worry picking up a notch as he tries to come up with rational explanations for why his partner isn't here.

A soft rustle of clothes to the right of him, followed by a hoarse, slurred, "What're you d'ing h're?" are so unexpected that it takes him a few moments to coax his heart back into place from where it plummeted somewhere into the vicinity of his boots.

"Funny you should ask that," he manages finally, as he turns in the direction of the voice to spot a familiar figure sitting hunched over in the far corner of the staircase, half-hidden by the lingering shadows. "Because, from what I understand, you told Kono I was supposed to have dropped you off here after the hospital."

Steve leans sideways against the wall, pausing long enough to take a long, slow pull out of a bottle he's clutching in his right hand. A bottle too large to be a Longboard. Then comes a drunkenly daring, "I lied..."

"Yeah, I got that," Danny retorts, takes a step closer, squinting disapprovingly at the nearly empty bottle. "What I'd like to know is why."

Steve waves sloppily at him with his bottle-wielding arm. The amber liquid sloshes wildly from side to side, but Steve is already raising the bottle back to his lips before it has a chance to fully settle down.

"_Jack_ and I d'dn't f-feel lu..l-like c'comp'ny," he slurs and takes another gulp.

Danny blinks worriedly at him. He's seen Steve shot, beaten, tortured, drugged. He's seen him angry. He's even seen him heartbroken and distressed. He's _**never**_ seen him like this. This is Steve... unraveled. A miserable puddle of complete emotional meltdown, an anguished, violently spasming soul lying in broken porcelain-like pieces in the midst of it all. And for the first time Danny doesn't know what to do, how to fix this.

Gritting his teeth, as he fights to collect his thoughts, he takes another step toward the stairs, lets his gaze trace the bandaged evidence of his partner's earlier scuffle with a suspect that ended in both men taking an unscheduled dive out a second story window. Busted ribs, likely some stitches. The man has to have had at least some painkillers shoved down his throat at the ER, otherwise he wouldn't have even been able to make it out of there under his own steam. And if that bottle Steve's drinking from was even half-full when he started...

Danny clenches his fists on that thought, a flare of worry-borne anger igniting his next words.

"So, what, your plan is to _**whiskey**_ your way into the oblivion?"

Steve cocks his head at him, his face still half-hidden in the persistent shadows. But Danny can see the odd glimmer in his partner's eyes, the bitter twist of his lips.

"Well," he drawls out, his voice bordering on acidic, "I was gonna follow your s-suggest'n and bl-blow m'brains out, but... 's'too m-messy. Plus..." He makes an awkward aborted gesture with his right hand, lets it flop listlessly back in his lap, the bottom of the bottle thudding dully against the wooden step. "... plus I'm kinda seeing double right now... was af...f-fraid I'd miss..."

Danny pales as his earlier carelessly tossed out words come back to literally bite him in the ass. _"Next time you feel like doing something stupid and give us all a heart attack, why don't you make it easy on everyone and just fucking blow your brains out? One time deal, quick and effective. Done and done." _Shit... Steve had to have known he didn't mean it. He had to. Hadn't he?

He licks his lips in nervous hesitation as he thinks about what to say. Some unapologetically sadistic part of him decides to get to the root of the problem and digs the knife deeper. "Where's Catherine?" he asks, and winces as Steve reacts to the question with a full body flinch.

"She left," comes a dull, frighteningly emotionless response, and Steve raises the bottle to his lips again.

"Left?" Danny is pretty sure he knows what Steve is saying here, but he just can't bring himself to believe it. "What do you mean 'left'? How? Where?"

"Aff...fghanist'n." Steve hiccups on the word, sways slightly in place. "Sh...g't a c-call this morn'ng that it was s-safe f'her to go back... S-so sh-she went..."

"This morning," Danny echoes numbly, as he thinks back to his brother's unusually distant, reserved comportment. "She told you this morning..." And Steve didn't say anything, didn't share, because Danny was acting like a petulant child, pissy and unapproachable. And then, to top it all off, he yelled at him and left him alone. The true impact of what he had done is enough to punch the air right out of his lungs.

"But why would ... why would she leave?" he murmurs, desperately trying to understand this woman, who claims to care about his friend so much, claims to love him. "I thought she came back to make things work between you, that she was here to stay..." He trails off, seeing Steve's face twist into an ugly, wounded grimace.

"D'dn't you g-get th' memo?" the SEAL huffs out with a sneer. "Ev-v-vr'body l..leav's." He waves his arm again, almost dropping the bottle. "I'm a f... fuck'n through-station... La Gare de Steve fuck'n McGarr'tt... a s-stop on the way..." He hiccups again, flops weakly back against the wall, and Danny is rooted to the spot, horrified by the sheer volume of grief and childlike fragility that's rolling in tsunami-size waves off his friend.

"She came to the hospital," Danny argues weakly, because this doesn't make any sense. "She came to..."

"T-to t-tell me she was all p-pack'd... up... and wish-sh me l-luck..."

"She knew you were injured," Danny whispered, unable to stop himself, as he pictured his friend sitting there alone in a hospital room, tired and hurting, and Catherine just... "And she just left?" The words escape before he has a chance to stop them, before his mind has time to retort with a viciously truthful, _So did you_.

Steve's wary, rueful gaze says it for him. "Go home, D'nny... J'st... leave me alone..." His eyes slide closed in drunken exhaustion, the right hand slipping lifelessly from his lap. The now empty bottle falls from the nerveless fingers and rolls noisily down the few steps to come to rest at Danny's feet.

Snapped out of the daze of self-recrimination, Danny's already moving, stumbling over to his motionless partner.

"Hey," he cries out as he reaches him and grabs him forcefully by the shoulders. "Hey, Steve!"

Steve wavers limply in his grasp, eyes fluttering weakly but remaining shut. Danny slaps him then. Hard. Gets a half-hooded glare in response. And that's all the incentive he needs. Pulling his flabby friend up, he begins to lug his swaying, unresisting form the rest of the way up the stairs, huffing and cursing Steve's gigantic size and heavily muscled bulk all the way there.

He gets Steve into the shower and leans him against the wall, panting like a horse that's been ridden too hard. One hand on Steve's shoulder to keep the other man steady, he reaches with his other one and turns on the water. Cold. Full blast.

Steve jerks in his grasp, tries feebly to pull away from the bone-chilling moisture. Danny resists, diligently tries to hold on, but Steve's too heavy for him to hold up with just one arm. They wobble, tilt dangerously, their precarious balance hopelessly shot. An instant Danny lets out an undignified yelp and they both tumble into the rapidly filling bathtub in a wild flail of limbs.

It's funny what happens, really. And Danny's sure they're gonna laugh about it. Someday. Not now, though. Not when he's looking at his soaked, shivering partner, who's squinting miserably at him from underneath a mesh of wet lashes.

"Whass wrong with me, Danny?" he slurs, blinking away excess moisture that Danny suspects isn't water at all. "Wh... why does evr'one leave?"

Danny places both hands on the cold, waterlogged cheeks, ducks his head to make sure to catch the wounded, battered gaze.

"Not everyone, babe," he whispers hotly, willing for his friend to listen, willing for him to believe. "I won't leave you. Not ever. No matter what I say or do. No matter how crazy, how messed up our lives become. I. Won't. Ever. Leave."

And as Steve falls weakly forward, letting his forehead thump gently against Danny's shoulder, Danny wraps his arms tighter around his shivering friend, letting him know that he's here, letting him feel his strength, his fierce determination to stay right where he is. Right where Steve needs him to be. For as long as he needs him.

"Not ever," he whispers with unwavering certainty into Steve's ear. Steve's shuddered intake of breath tells him that his friend knows he means it.

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><p><strong>Okay, so... I'm gonna run and hide now. Just in case...<strong>


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N Ahem... So, this is for SallyDeathHands, who requested a Steve-whumping chapter (how could I POSSIBLY say no to that?) and for TheDogo who pulled my head out of the sand and kept me from jumping on the first train out of Fanficville (long story...)**

**Zero plot. Lots of whump and comfort. Different kind of a whump, though. Haven't tried this before. Let me know what you think.**

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><p>"Da...Danny..."<p>

The sound of Steve's voice, tight and breathless with pain, cuts him like a knife. "I'm here, babe, I'm here." He squeezes the clammy, trembling hand tighter, throws a pleading look at the nurse.

"Can't you give him _**something**_? Please?" He knows he's begging, but he doesn't care. Because with the amount of pain Steve's in right now, Danny is ready to do anything to make it stop, even if he has to genuflect from here to the top of the Diamond Head.

The nurse purses her lips regretfully as she checks the saline drip and readjusts the IV Steve's latest episode nearly ripped out. "I'm sorry, Detective," she offers, and she sounds it, although her sorry makes absolutely zero difference for Danny. Even less so for Steve, who is lying before him, deathly pale and soaked in sweat, taking in shallow, gasping breaths, as he tries to prepare himself for the inevitable next round of pain.

Danny nods, grits his teeth. He knows it's not her fault. She wasn't the one who did this to his partner. Wasn't the one who stalked him for months, fueled by some misguided notion of revenge. Wasn't the one who picked the ideal moment – a time when the SEAL was relaxing in a bar in a circle of friends, off duty and off guard – to make his move.

He grips Steve's hand tighter, his other clenching into an angry fist. He can still see the pale, wild-eyed face, distorted with hatred and rage, the syringe-wielding hand raised maliciously over Steve's unsuspecting form, the rabid spit flying from the thinned-out lips, as the bastard hisses out his curses, while Chin and Grover wrangle him to the ground.

Danny swallows tightly, presses his lips together until they hurt. He should have been faster. Should have stopped him. Should have done ... something. Instead he stood there, rooted to the spot by the sheer insanity of it. Until Steve choked out a strained, garbled "Danny" and collapsed to the floor, writhing in unimaginable pain.

From that moment on, his life narrowed down to a single hospital bed, the pain-wracked man in it and a handful of people, who filtered in and out, providing words of support and comfort, none of which gave either of them any relief.

He thinks back to the harrowing ride in the ambulance, with Steve thrashing violently within Danny's and the EMT's restraining hands, alternating between arching his back off the stretcher and folding sharply in on himself to nearly topple over the edge and onto the floor. To the subsequent hours of heart-stuttering wait, while a team of doctors raced to figure out the what's and the how's. To the eventual non-reassuring verdict of wait and see. A combination of toxins they have not seen before, they said. No treatment that they could recommend, other than to flush the poison out of his system and hope for the best. He's in a lot of pain, they said, but he's holding his own. They've made him as comfortable as they could, they've got him on IVs to get as much fluid into him as possible. He's fighting, that's all they can say for now.

"Are you giving him anything for the pain?" Danny asked then, hoping for a positive response. Because his brother has already suffered enough, and nobody should be forced to go through that kind of pain (except maybe the guy responsible for all this mess, but that's something Danny's gonna think about later). The doctor's grimly regretful headshake took him by surprise. His very next words had him fighting a strong urge to vomit.

"I'm sorry, Detective. Commander McGarrett's immune system is working overtime trying to fight this thing without much assistance from us, unfortunately. I'm afraid that if we depress his immune system with painkillers he may succumb to the poison."

So here Steve is. Fighting. Wave after wave of vicious, gut-ripping pain. With small moments of respite in between. Moments that seem to be getting shorter after each subsequent episode. It is one of those "peaceful" moments now, and Steve is "resting" with his head back on the pillow. His chest is heaving with exhaustion, the dry, cracked lips are parted slightly as he sucks in gulp after gulp of stale, hospital room air. His dark, damp curls are plastered against the pale, sweat-stained forehead. The dull, pain-glazed eyes seek out Danny and lock on to him sluggishly, crinkling with grateful recognition.

Danny's throat is too tight, the words unable to make it through. So he just nods, forcing himself to smile reassuringly at his partner to let him know that, yes, he's here and he's not going anywhere. They'll get through this. Together.

Steve understands. They always did manage to understand each other without words. His eyelashes dip slightly in mute acknowledgment, and then his body stiffens suddenly and it's all the warning Danny gets before the nightmare begins again.

Steve's eyes slam shut, the ashen face contorting under the renewed onslaught of pain. Teeth digging viciously into his already bleeding bottom lip, he writhes and convulses amid the tangle of drenched sheets, his right hand crushing Danny's palm more and more with each violent spasm.

Danny stands beside him, teeth clenched in helpless anguish, as he runs the fingers of his free hand through Steve's sodden locks – a feeble gesture of useless comfort. Until a particularly brutal flare of agony tears through his partner's already abused midsection, and he jackknifes straight up in bed, his free arm clutched tightly around his middle, a hoarse, desperate scream ripping out of his throat.

Danny's had enough. Throwing a warning glance at the nurse, as if daring her to try and stop him, he jumps into the bed behind Steve, his back against the headboard, wraps both arms around the damp, rigid form and pulls him flush against his chest. "I'm right here, babe," he repeats fervently, holding on for dear life, while his brother rides out the nerve-searing tremors.

Steve's screams of his name, raucous and desperate, as he begs him to please, _**please**_ make it stop, slice straight through his heart, and he's bleeding out right there fused to the sweat-soaked body of his partner. He doesn't notice the tears that stream unchecked down his own cheeks as he asserts over and over, "I've got you, Steve. You hear me? I've got you."

He is hoarse by the time this episode is over, by the time Steve sags limp and boneless in his arms, trembling with residual pain. Danny lets out a breath of momentary relief, drops his chin onto his partner's shoulder, feels the wetness of Steve's tears against his own tear-stained cheek.

"You did good, buddy," he whispers, his own breaths coming in fast and ragged as if he had just finished a marathon himself. "You did good."

Steve's eyes are closed, tears trapped within the dark mesh of his long eyelashes glisten softly in the dimmed light of the room.

"This may have been the worst of it," the nurse ventures kindly, as she once again readjusts the drip. "You should let him rest now, Detective."

Danny nods reluctantly, loosening his frenzied grip on Steve.

"St...stay... please..." The thin, raspy whisper draws his attention back to the pale face that's pressed against his cheek. The pain-pinched, bloodshot eyes are open now, watching him with so much fear and so much hope that it threatens to burst Danny's heart into a million of tiny brittle shards, stuns him into silence.

"Please," Steve repeats, despair coloring his voice, and Danny is jolted into action.

"Not leaving," he swears, raising one hand to cup Steve's clammy cheek. The nurse makes a disapproving sound somewhere to the side of him, but he ignores her, his focus solely on the sweat and tear-stained face before him. "I got nowhere else I need to be."

Steve blinks at him gratefully, lets his eyes slide closed. And Danny feels the last of the worried tension drain away from him as he relaxes once again in Danny's hold. Danny settles himself back against the pillows, positions Steve so that he lays more comfortably against him, throws a challenging look at the nurse above Steve's head.

The nurse presses her lips together in disapproval but says nothing, moving instead to check the vitals on the monitor beside the bed.

"He's doing better," she notes, picking up a wet sponge to wipe away the sweat from Steve's brow. Danny intercepts her hand, takes the sponge into his.

"I got this," he whispers, smiling tightly at her nod of acknowledgment. The nurse walks out, promising to come back to check on him in a little while, and Danny begins his new task. He runs the sponge gently over his friend's skin, whispering words of encouragement, of comfort, of love. Steve is silent against him, still, his breaths slowly evening out. He's resting, Danny realizes. For the first time since this nightmare began. And Danny is ready to cry with joy.

It doesn't last, of course. And there are more bouts of torture his friend has to endure throughout the night. But they aren't as long or as vicious anymore. And Danny counts it as a win that, every time Steve slumps exhausted back against his chest after yet another wave of pain has passed, he is looking less and less like death warmed over and at times even manages to give Danny a weak, trembling smile.

The next morning takes him by surprise. Because he's awakened by a ray of sunlight that streams through the open blinds. Because he's actually managed to fall asleep. And that means... He glances down at his partner, still ensconced within the protective cocoon of his arms, and his face breaks into a wide, happy smile. Steve's sleeping. Soundly. Peacefully. Pain-free.

He looks up to find the nurse watching them with a smile on her face. "He's been sleeping for several hours now," she says quietly, nodding at Steve. "A very, _**very**_ good sign. Doctor Alana will stop by in a few minutes to discuss his latest blood test. From the looks of it, though, I think he's finally in the clear."

Danny closes his eyes gratefully, unable to quite hold back a relieved sob. Steve stirs in his arms, his eyelids fluttering as he comes awake.

"Danny?" his voice's still hoarse, still a bit thin, but much, _**much**_ steadier.

"Yeah, babe," he whispers back, leaning down to plant a dry, shaky kiss on his brother's forehead. "I'm here."

"Thank you," Steve breathes out, the dark blue eyes locking on Danny's, sparkling with gratitude and love. "For staying..."

Danny smiles warmly at him, tugs him just a tad closer. "Always," he assures him firmly. "Always."

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><p><em>Fin for now<em>


	18. Sticks and Stones Part I: Losing Grip

**A/N Okay, so this one is different. Very different. I'm changing things around in this universe, wanting to try out new stuff. I have ideas for AU plotless stories as well, and if you, guys, have no objections, I am going to try those out, too. And when I say AU, I mean complete suspension of disbelief. Taking the boys to new frontiers, to go where they've never gone before (yes, maybe space, too) :) **

**This story here is not AU. More like a progression of where the season finale left us. But you'll notice that the POV here is different. It's not Steve or Danny, but a rebellious (and resentful) teenage Grace. Though the next part will be Danny's POV (yes, it's a two-parter). Still this story got all the other elements of the 'Brothers' universe - little to no plot, plotless whump (emotional and physical), lots of angst and, hopefully, comfort. But this is more of an Uncle Steve/Brother Steve story, rather than just being a strictly Steve/Danny show. **

**Thank you to TheDogo, as always! *3* **

**And, enjoy :)**

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><p><strong>Sticks and Stones. Part I: Losing Grip<strong>

She leans back on the lounge chair, watches lazily as Kala, Maddie and Nalani splash around in the pool, trying their best to impress a group of high schoolers. They are from Malia's class, Kala's older sister. It's her party. Her very much _unauthorized _party. Well, at least in so far as her parents not knowing anything about it. Malia is sneaky that way. Picked a perfect time – her mom and dad are out celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary and won't be back for at least another two-three hours. She couldn't hide it from Kala, of course, and Kala basically blackmailed Malia into allowing her to invite some of her friends as well. In exchange for not ratting her older sister out to her parents.

That's how Grace ended up here. Along with Maddie and Nalani, two of her other best friends from school. She wasn't supposed to come, of course. Mom would have never allowed it. And Danno... well, Danno hasn't had much say in anything regarding her life lately, so...

She bites her lip, chases away the unpleasant thoughts. She came here to unwind, to hang out with her friends, to flirt. She's old enough, no matter what Danno says.

The music inside is too loud, and there are too many people mingling around a not so large living room. So she escaped out here, to the backyard pool. It's crowded here, too. Seems like Malia managed to squeeze the entire high school into her parents' 2,000 square foot house. Still, out here by the pool things don't seem as cramped as they do inside, and Grace actually managed to find an unoccupied seat. Plus she can now justify putting on her new navy-blue bikini with a triangle bra top. She knows she looks good in it, she's seen herself in the mirror. Knows, too, that Danno would have a fit if he saw her wearing this in a company of boys. Older boys, at that. And maybe that's also part of the reason she did it. Okay, a big part. But she's also 13, going on 14, and she's not blind. She sees the way her classmates dress, the way they flirt with boys, the way the boys flirt back. She wants that, too. She knows she's pretty, but she wants to be sexy as well. And she knows that in that bathing suit with a pair of sunglasses and a little bit of mom's makeup she looks very sexy indeed. Maddie said so. So did Kala. Dressed like this, she can mingle with the high schoolers like she actually belongs here. And, best of all, Danno's not here to tell her to _put some clothes on and wipe that stuff off her face_. She makes a face, as she mock mouths that last phrase in her best Danno impression.

She feels someone's gaze on her and looks up just in time to meet a pair of intense dark eyes. Alika. Tall, dark-haired, cute smile. He's 15. One of the best surfers on Makaha Beach. Way out of her league. But he noticed her. And she can feel her heart speed up at the knowledge. Unconsciously, she reaches up to fix the string of her bikini top. Feels a blush creep up her cheeks at a wide-toothed smile that is now directed toward her. Hesitantly, she smiles back.

"Grace!"

The loud, commanding voice that cuts through the cacophonous din of giggles, conversations and blaring music is one she recognizes instantly, and she rolls her eyes in annoyance. _Figures_. She isn't really surprised that he tracked her down. The _stupid_ gadgets they got at their _stupid_ 5-0 headquarters – they let them track down anyone they want. And she should have left her phone at home, she realizes, exasperated. What really gets her, though, is the fact that her Danno didn't even deign to come after her himself. That he sent his partner to do it.

"Come on, Grace. We're leaving." He's looming over her now, his shadow blocking out the sun. She can feel Alika's gaze on her, intense and curious. Feels herself blush even more under that scrutiny, from the sheer embarrassment of the situation.

There's no way she's letting Uncle Steve do this. No way she'll allow him to humiliate her like this in front of all these cool kids.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she snaps back and looks away, blatantly ignoring him as she fixes her gaze on the sparkling pool water, on Nalani's happily bobbing head. "I don't have to. You're not my father."

His shadow doesn't move. "You're not staying here, Grace," comes the outwardly calm response, although she can feel the tension underneath. "You're coming with me now. That's not negotiable."

She grinds her teeth, resisting the urge to scream. Alika's still watching her, she can tell. And there's plenty of Malia's other classmates within earshot. The last thing she needs is for everyone to be talking about her making a scene at the school tomorrow, she'll never live that down. No, she needs to play it cool.

She tilts her head up, squints at the stony, unreadable mask that is her (formerly) favorite uncle's face. "What," she asks, putting as much sarcasm as she can into her voice, even as her normally obedient, polite self is cowering in dread and confusion on the inside, "is _Danno _too busy to come get me himself that he's using his partner as his errand boy?"

She knows she crossed the line. Sees it in the way those navy-blue eyes narrow ever so slightly, in the unhappy darkening of his expression. She forces herself not to flinch, silently convinces herself that she doesn't care. It's not like he can do anything to her anyway. She knows her rights. He's not family. Not really. And his Navy SEAL death stare doesn't scare her any.

"Your dad doesn't know about this," he says, and reaches down to grasp her by her upper arm. "Your mom's the one that called me. Let's go."

The revelation is a surprise indeed. She never would have figured on her mom reaching out to Uncle Steve like that. As far as she knew, the relationship between them was never that good to begin with. Became even worse after the whole mess with Charlie. She knew Uncle Steve was angry with her mom over it, almost as much as Danno himself was. So she didn't think her mom would actually go so far as to ask Uncle Steve for help.

Her bewilderment puts her off guard just enough that she doesn't even resist much when Uncle Steve all but yanks her out of the lounge chair and pulls her to her feet. He releases her arm long enough to take off his outer shirt and drape it across her bare shoulders.

Her face beet red with humiliation, she tries to rip the offending rag off, but he plants his hand on her shoulder, preventing her from doing just that. "There's no way you're going outside dressed like this, Grace," he says, his voice steely. "Just be grateful your dad's not here to see it." And then he's dragging her past all the wide-eyed, inquiring faces around the back of the house toward his truck.

She's mortified. He just treated her like a freaking 5-year-old in front of a bunch of high-schoolers. Tomorrow at school everybody is gonna be talking about it, laughing at her, mocking her. Her reputation is ruined. Her _life_ is ruined.

He opens the passenger door, lets his hand drop from her shoulder. "Get in," he tells her, completely ignoring what he just did to her back there.

"No!" she yells, defiant. She's on the verge of tears now, but she can't do it, can't cry. Because they are still watching her – some peeking out of the windows, some standing on the porch. Alika's there, too, frowning worriedly at her. She can't lose it. Not in front of those kids.

"I'm not going," she repeats her earlier assertion. "And you can't make me. You're not my dad. And if my dad doesn't even care what I do or where I am, then you shouldn't either!"

He blinks at her, brows knitting together in a frown of confusion. "Why would you think your dad doesn't care, Grace?"

She presses her lips together, scowls at him. "He's _Charlie's _dad now," she retorts, for the first time giving voice to the growing resentment that's been eating away at her ever since she found out. "He's with him all the time now. He's with him now, this minute, too, I'm sure. He's taken him to all of our favorite places. He's been with him to Jersey. He–"

She trails off, fists clenched at her sides. It was that trip to New Jersey that tipped the scales for her, for sure. She knows she's not being entirely fair. Knows that Danno doesn't make enough to afford 3 plane tickets. Knows, too, that her dad's too proud to accept money from others (she overheard his argument with Uncle Steve about it). But it's like there's something inside her that just wants to revel in this perceived unfairness toward her person, to nurse and nurture those wounded feelings like a sickly infant, so they grow stronger, darker, deeper.

Uncle Steve watches her, unimpressed, and there's a flicker of something like disappointment in the dark blue eyes.

"He's trying to make up for lost time with your brother, Gracie, you know that," he says finally, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly. "And from what I hear, your dad's been going out of his way to spend more time with you, too, but you've been pushing him away." His voice is low and careful, as if he's handling a frightened wild animal. She bristles at the image, scowls even deeper.

"I'm not going with you," she insists stubbornly and crosses her arms in added defiance. "I'm going back inside with my friends. They're waiting for me." She juts her chin out in the direction of Alika and the others.

Steve turns away from her, glares at the gawking teens. "Show's over," he growls, placing his right hand conspicuously next to the police badge that's clipped to his pant belt. "You got five seconds to get your asses back inside the house. And I suggest you find a way to get back to your own homes as quickly as possible before I call your parents and have them _drag_ you back."

The kids throw worried, hesitant glances their way and start gradually filing back inside the house. Alika lingers for a moment, gives her a small sympathetic smile. Then he, too, walks away with a helpless shrug and a mouthed "sorry".

"Coward," she bites out in Alika's direction, scowling as she watches him retreat hastily back inside.

She knows she can't really blame Alika here. Steve McGarrett is a force to be reckoned with. The man is intimidating on a good day, but when he's pissed over something he becomes downright terrifying. It used to be Grace loved that about him. That intensity. That towering strength. The security and awesomeness of the feeling of being loved and protected by someone like him.

Today... _now_... she hates it. Hates _him_. More than she ever thought possible. She hates the ground he walks on, the air he breathes, the fact that he is in her life at all.

She tells him that.

She isn't prepared for what comes next.

Hurt flashes in her uncle's eyes, deep and intense like a burst of lightning across a dark night sky. It bares him raw before her, leaves him momentarily vulnerable. She's never seen him like this. She's not sure she'd ever want to again. That hurt she caused, the severity of it – it takes her breath away, makes her feel all cold inside.

She blinks rapidly, staring at him in mute horror, as she tries to think of a way to take it all back. But it's already too late, and she is stunned to watch his face morph instantly back into an impassive, ice-cold mask, emotional shutters slamming down with an almost audible snap.

"Get in the truck, Grace," he says flatly. He doesn't wait for her to respond. Just turns and starts walking around the front of the Silverado to the driver's side.

She pulls her door open, climbs in, her movements robotic, her mind numb. There's still anger somewhere within her, resentment, sulkiness. But they no longer matter as much. Not when she's terrified to death of what she has just done and has no idea how to fix it. She's terrified of the sheer thought of sitting next to her uncle for the next twenty minutes as he drives her home. She doesn't even know if she can do this. She can hear him grab the door handle, and all she wants to do is curl up on the seat and disappear, draw herself inside a shell like a turtle and not come out until she's safely back home.

A screech of tires draws her attention to the outside, and she looks out the windshield, her gaze widening at the sight of a dark sedan speeding down the street toward them. One of the tinted side windows is lowered as the car gets closer, a volley of gunfire sprays the side of the truck as the sedan passes them by and speeds away, disappearing down the street.

She crouches down instinctively when the gunfire starts, covers her head with her arms. But then it's over just as suddenly as it began. And everything's quiet again. Too quiet.

She pops her head up, a sudden jolt of fear twisting her insides into an uncomfortable knot. _What if... _

_No_, she shakes her head in mute denial. _It can't be. Can it?_ She needs to go out there, needs to see for herself. She slides out her still open door, walks cautiously around the front of the truck, her heart thumping wildly against her ribcage.

A booted leg in dark-gray cargo pants is the first thing she sees. Flat on the ground, unmoving.

Trembling hands rising to clamp nervously around her mouth, she forces her suddenly wooden legs to move as she steps around the hood of the Silverado. And feels her heart stop.

Breath wedged painfully in her throat like a dry piece of toast, she stares horrified at the gruesome red smear that trails down the driver's side door, at the slumped figure that lies half-propped against it, at the formerly white undershirt that's now soaked in blood.

"U...Uncle Steve?" she calls out, her voice breaking on the name, the last syllable morphing into a pitiful sob. She drops to her knees beside him, reaches shakily toward the exposed triangle of his neck. "Uncle Steve, please..." She's crying openly now, a thick veil of tears clouding the pale, slack face before her.

Her fingers feel numb when she touches his skin, and she can't even tell if she's pressing them in the right place. But he stirs suddenly, his eyelids fluttering sluggishly as he attempts to focus.

"Gr...ace?" His lips barely move, the whisper almost inaudible in the small space that separates them.

She leans closer, plants her other hand on the side of his cheek. "I'm here, Uncle Steve," she chokes out, her words fighting to get past a suffocating dam of anguish and fear. "I'm okay."

He never quite manages to raise his gaze toward her, but he nods lightly in acknowledgment. An instant later his eyes slide closed once more, and no amount of pleading and crying succeeds in bringing him back to consciousness. Not even when she pulls the oversized shirt off her trembling shoulders and presses it hard against the heavily bleeding wounds. He doesn't stir anymore. She can't even tell if he still breathes, if he's still alive. And all she can think about is how the very last thing she said to him was that she wished he was dead.

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><p><strong>TBC in Part II: Holding On<strong>


	19. Sticks and Stones Part II: Holding On

**A/N **** Thank you all so much for such an encouraging response to this installment (guest reviewers, especially, since I am unable to thank you personally)! Boy, you sure know how to boost a girl's confidence! I sincerely hope the conclusion doesn't disappoint.**

**TheDogo, thank you, as always! **

**Enjoy **

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><p><strong>Sticks and Stones. Part 2: Holding On<strong>

His phone rings just as they are leaving the zoo, Charlie bouncing happily beside him, munching on a big cone of chocolate ice-cream, his cheeks, hands and t-shirt all bearing proof that he's enjoying the treat.

One glance at the ID and his good mood evaporates like a dew drop on a hot, sunny morning.

"Hello, Rachel," he grinds out, forcing a smile for the sake of Charlie, who's now looking up at him with innocent curiosity. "It's nice of you to check up on me, but we're just leaving. Don't worry, I'll have our son back to you at the appointed hour."

"Daniel, it's not..." She sounds exasperated for some reason, worried, too. "That's not why I'm calling. I was... I was wondering if you'd heard anything from your friend, the Commander."

"From Steve?" He frowns, stops his forward progress as he focuses all of his attention on the conversation that has just taken a completely unexpected turn. "Why? What's going on, Rachel?"

He hears her sigh nervously, feels his own heart clench in an unpleasant spasm of foreboding. "Grace is missing," she says finally, and Danny feels the bottom drop out of his world. He grabs Charlie by the hand, perhaps a bit harder than he intended, swallows dryly. Before he has a chance to ask any more, however, she continues, her voice tight with frustration and worry.

"She was supposed to go on a sleepover with a friend of hers from school. Madeleine. Only ... only Madeleine's mother called me a little while ago, asking when she should come to pick up her daughter."

"Grace lied..." The realization is like a heavy rock in the pit of his stomach. He knows things have been strained between them lately. Grace had grown distant, been pushing him away. But _this_? _Lying_?

"I didn't want to ruin your day with Charlie," Rachel continues, and she sounds genuine for once. But Danny's still reeling, trying to reconcile his stupefaction over his baby girl's dishonesty and the now legitimate and growing worry for her well-being.

"So you reached out to Steve," he cuts her off abruptly, etiquette be damned. "How long ago?"

He hears her pull in an unsettlingly shaky breath. "He called me, said he had a lock on Grace's phone and that he was going to go get her and bring her home." There's a noise on Rachel's end that sounds suspiciously like a sniffle. "That was over 20 minutes ago. Daniel... I haven't been able to reach either of them. I–"

"Hang on," he interrupts her again as an urgent beep cuts in on his end of the line, announcing a new waiting caller. "I got another call coming in. Maybe that's Steve."

He doesn't listen to whatever else it is she tries to tell him as he hurriedly slides his thumb over the screen to accept the new call. His mind has a split second to register the fact that the number is not one he's familiar with before a tense female voice comes over the line,

"Is this Detective Williams?"

He frowns, answers in the affirmative.

"This is Leilani Hale. I'm a paramedic with the Honolulu Emergency Medical Services Division. I have a Grace Williams here with me, Detective. We're en route to the Queens Medical Center."

He doesn't need to hear any more. "I'll meet you there," he forces out, fumbling to shove the suddenly trembling phone back into his pocket.

Five seconds later the black Camaro is peeling out of the parking lot, a confused and mildly worried Charlie staring at him from the back seat.

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He's unprepared for the sight that opens before him when he rushes into the semi-packed waiting room, Charlie in tow. Unprepared to see Grace with an oversized scrub top over her skinny, trembling form, a bloody dark-blue rag clutched desperately to her chest. Unprepared to see her with her knees drawn up to her chin, her shoulders hunched in misery and defeat, her face smeared with traces of makeup, tears and blood. Unprepared to see her stare unblinking at the opposite wall, her gaze frighteningly vacant.

"Grace...," he calls out, voice strained with worry.

"Detective Williams." A woman rises from the seat next to Grace. A paramedic. Danny's eyes skim over the badge: _Leilani Hale_. She's the one that called, his brain supplies, even as it scrambles to readjust focus as the woman speaks again. "...is okay, Sir," she assures, and Danny flicks his gaze briefly to her sympathetic face only to shift it to Grace once again. "She has no physical injuries, but she _is_ a little shocky. I gave her a mild sedative, and she's––"

"Shocky... what," he mumbles, trying really hard to make at least some sense out of her words. "Grace?!" he calls out, louder, with more desperation.

She hears him this time, raises her forlorn, tear-filled gaze toward him. Her face crumples into a pitiful, chin-shuddering mess, and she shoots out of the chair like a tightly wound spring that's just snapped.

He's unprepared when she crashes into him, nearly knocking him backwards. And then all he can do is hold her, as she bawls loudly into the front of his shirt, her body trembling like a leaf in the wind. He catches garbled snippets of phrases, half choked out words. Lots of "I'm sorry's" and "I did this" and "Uncle Steve's".

"Gracie, Grace, calm down," he urges as he tries to pry her face off his chest to lift her chin up so he can catch her eyes. "Can you tell me what happened, baby? Why are you dressed like this? What... what _about_ Uncle Steve?"

She sobs harder at the mention of his partner's name if that's even possible, and Danny stops understanding her altogether. Flustered, he directs a pleading look at the EMT, silently begging for her help, explanation, _anything _to make sense of this.

Leilani shakes her head, regretful. "We got called in on a drive-by victim," she supplies, her voice low. "Her uncle, from what I understand. He was unresponsive when we arrived. And Grace was... well, she was having a hard time. I believe she witnessed the shooting."

There's a hand in an ice-cold metal glove wrapped around his heart, and its fingers are clenching tighter and tighter around it, until he finds himself struggling to breathe. His gaze slides down unconsciously to the blood-soaked, rumpled fabric still clutched in Grace's limply hanging hand, a single shirt sleeve sticking out, dangling carelessly at her feet. He knows that shirt sleeve. Knows that _shirt_.

"Grace?" He can feel his voice shaking, but there's little he can do about it, because the rest of him is shaking as well.

"He's in surgery, Detective," Leilani supplies, as the only responses coming from Grace are loud, sniffle-interspersed sobs. "He was alive when we brought him in. He wasn't...," she throws a sympathetic look at Grace, lowers her voice, "...wasn't doing so well, but he was alive."

He nods numbly, feels a sudden overwhelming urge to sit down. Gently, he guides both children back to the chairs and all but collapses into one of them, his legs awkward and rubbery. Grace buries herself into one side of him, Charlie snuggles up from the other. He wraps an arm around them both, slides his gaze dazedly to the closed OR doors and sinks into the horrified numbness of the moment. Waiting.

He has no idea of the passage of time. He knows he needs to inform the rest of the team, but he just can't seem to move his arms. Can't move period.

Rachel comes in at some point. He assumes the EMT called her, too. He's not sure. He doesn't notice her come, anyway. Doesn't feel her take the slumbering Charlie out of his grasp and hoist him up gently into her arms. Doesn't realize she's there until she tries to pry Grace away from him and the little girl recoils from her touch, digging the fingers of her free hand painfully into Danny's side.

"I won't go!" she screeches, shaking her head wildly to her mother's pleas to come home with her. "I can't. Uncle Steve is– I need to know. Danno, please!"

He blinks, swallows tightly against a parched throat. "Let her stay, Rachel," he croaks out, shifting his gaze toward her for the first time. He wants to say something else, but at that moment the double doors he's been staring at for the past God knows how many minutes, hours swing open, and Rachel is forgotten. He jumps off the chair, feeling Grace move in tandem with him, staggers forward to meet the balding gray-haired man in round old-fashioned glasses that comes out to greet them.

The news the surgeon gives them are light-years away from encouraging. Collapsed lung, damage to the left atrium of the heart, shattered sternum, hemorrhagic shock...

Danny squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, tunes out the mountain of medical jargon that's being thrown at him.

"Can you just... can you tell me if he's gonna be alright?" he begs hoarsely, feels Grace stiffen at his side.

The doctor gives him a hard, weary look, a deep frown line between his eyebrows growing even more defined.

"Unfortunately, Detective, the only thing I can tell you is that the Commander is stable _now_. I'm afraid I can't provide assurances beyond that point." He sighs, runs his hand tiredly through the thin white wisps of hair that fall on his wrinkle-creased forehead. "He's better than where he was when he was brought in," the surgeon offers, a hollow-sounding reassurance. "Frankly, I was surprised he made it to my operating table."

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"It's all my fault..."

Grace's quiet, dejected voice startles him out of his dark musings, and Danny blinks, shifting his attention to his daughter, who is curled up across his lap.

"What are you... what do you mean?" He frowns when there's no response, places his hand cautiously on her shoulder. "Grace?"

He hears her sniffle, feels a slight tremor course through her small frame. "I went to that stupid party because I was so mad at you," she heaves out, her voice muffled by his pant leg. "I wanted... I wanted to do all those things you never let me do because I didn't think you cared anymore."

"Not... _what_?" he gasps, baffled. _This_ is what his little girl has been thinking all this time? That he abandoned her? That he no longer _cared_? The revelation is a sharp, jagged-edged sword that's rammed deep into his gut, leaving behind a gaping, bleeding wound. "Grace, that's not–"

But she's talking again, and he forces himself to shut up, to listen. Because whatever it is she needs to tell him, he knows it's important. Can feel it deep in his bones.

"When Uncle Steve... when he found me, he was angry... at what I did, at the way I looked. He dragged me out of there, and I... I was mean... I was so mean, Daddy. I called him names, I refused to listen." Her voice cuts out on another loud sniffle, and Danny bites his lip, straining to maintain his silence. A pang of guilt echoes sharply in his heart, as he thinks about Steve having to field his daughter's anger, anger that wasn't even meant for him.

"I told him I hated him, Danno." Grace's voice quivers as she tries to keep tears at bay, her hands twisting the blue fabric of Steve's shirt with mounting agitation. "I told him... I said... I wished he was d...dead."

Her voice cuts out completely, her body shuddering with deep, distressed sobs, and Danny sits back, stunned at her revelation. Stunned and terrified. Because if the worst should happen, if Steve does not survive, how will Grace ever get over this? How will any of them?

He swallows dryly against a thick lump of fear, forces his leaden tongue to move. "Uncle Steve knows you didn't mean it, Sweetheart," he tries, running a shaking hand through her tangled brown locks.

She stills momentarily, then pushes herself up on her hands to look up at him for the first time. The troubled, tearful look in her eyes is almost his undoing. "You didn't see him, Danno," she murmurs, raising one hand to wipe at her hopelessly tear-stained face. "He looked so... so hurt. Like ... like Charlie did when ... after his procedure, at the hospital that first day. And _I_ did that... and now he's–"

She ducks her head again, bites down on her quivering lip, and Danny has to slam his eyes shut, as his own emotions threaten to overrun him. He knows exactly what she's talking about. He's seen that look on Steve's face, put there numerous times courtesy of Doris, Joe White, ...Catherine. The look of a child betrayed by those he trusted the most. How apt is the comparison that Grace made with Charlie. How raw...

Danny leans his head against the wall, reaches up to dry his own unexpectedly wet cheeks. "You know, Monkey, your Uncle Steve... he is a very strong person, and he has a very big heart," he begins hoarsely, throwing a despondent look in the direction of the ICU cubicle they've been waiting to gain access to. Grace gazes at him forlornly, gives him a slow, cautious nod. "But some people in his life, some... bad people, have also taken advantage of that big heart of his and they hurt him, a lot. They made him believe that he doesn't deserve to be loved, that other people can't love him."

Grace's eyes grow wide at that, her mouth forming a perfect little "o" of disbelief before a fresh wave of tears makes her chin wobble. "But ... but that's not true. Danno, that isn't true," she moans, seemingly begging him to agree with her.

He does, of course, but that's beside the point. It's Steve that needs convincing. He tells her that.

"How?" She watches him, breathless with anticipation, and Danny smiles softly at her through a haze of his own tears.

"You'll have to fix this, Gracie. You'll have to prove to him that what he thinks about you isn't true. That you love him just as much as he loves you." He lifts up her chin once more, peers deeply into her eyes. "You _do_ love him, don't you, Monkey?"

She lowers her gaze, nodding into his hand. "I do, but..." She sighs, pulls in a shuddered breath.

"What, Gracie?"

She dares a glance at him, watery and uncertain. "I don't think he'll want to see me after... after what I said."

He draws her in, hugs her like there's no tomorrow. "I think you'll find that Uncle Steve is a lot more forgiving than you give him credit for, Monkey," he murmurs into the top of her head. "And I think you owe it to him to try."

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She pushes the door open and slides quietly into the room, her heart thumping so loudly in her chest she's certain that he can hear it from across the room. He doesn't seem to be aware of her presence just yet, however, and so she lingers by the door, content to simply watch him.

It's been a long and difficult recovery for him, but he has finally been cleared to leave the hospital. Or, more like, bullied the doctors and staff into letting him out, according to Danno. And, honestly, as Grace observes him now, she tends to agree with her father's assessment: Uncle Steve looks anything _but_ ready to leave the hospital. He's awfully thin and paler than the sheets on his bed. He moves stiffly, wincing with every movement.

She watches him fumble awkwardly with the belt buckle, his fingers shaking too much to get the prong into the right hole. He gives up finally, lets the buckle drop with a heavy sigh and leans back against the bed, looking positively exhausted. His gaze settles on the pair of boots that stands innocuously at his feet. He seems to consider them as one would an enemy combatant, a scowl of grim determination crossing his features. Jaws clenched, he moves to lean down toward them, aborting the movement halfway as a hiss of pain escapes his thinned out lips and his face somehow manages to grow another shade paler. Eyes slammed shut, teeth ripping viciously into his bottom lip, he falls back against the bed again, his nostrils flaring with deep, rapid breaths.

Grace can't watch anymore. Drawing in a deep breath of her own, she walks forward determinedly, touches him on the arm. "Uncle Steve," she says and frowns at the way he jumps at her touch, "let me do this."

"Grace," he breathes, his face – a pasty but carefully controlled mask, "what are you–?" He blinks at her, looking bewildered. Like he can't believe she's here. Like he didn't expect to see her anymore. And maybe he really didn't.

He doesn't know she'd spent every free moment of her time at his bedside, watching him sleep, holding on to his hand as if it were her lifeline. Doesn't know about the tears she'd cried, the jumbled words of apology she'd sobbed into his hospital gown. Because she was never there when he was awake. She'd chickened out when he began to regain consciousness, fled the room when she saw his face twist in pain as he tried to take his first unassisted breath.

She remembers the conversation she had with Danno afterwards, when in response to his questioning, disapproving gaze she'd told him she couldn't do it, couldn't face Uncle Steve. Not yet. Because she did this to him. She hurt him with her words, caused him to be distracted, to not react in time to the threat he surely would have otherwise noticed. And she was afraid that if he saw her now, that hurt she caused would be the first thing he'd remember, and she couldn't handle seeing it in his eyes again.

Danno squatted before her, his eyes boring into hers. _ "You remember that book we read a while ago, Gracie, 'The Little Prince'?" _

She nodded hesitantly, not quite understanding where he was going with this.

_"Remember the Fox?"_

_"The one that the Little Prince tamed?" _

_"Yes, that one," _Danno responded with a soft smile._ "The Fox allowed the Little Prince to tame him, to get into his heart. And when the Little Prince left him, the Fox was very sad. But you remember what he told the Little Prince?"_

Understanding dawned, and she swallowed tightly, hanging her head in shame._ "That we are forever responsible for those we tame."_

Danno noded, placing his hand on her shoulder._ "Uncle Steve loves you, Gracie," _he said_. "He allowed you into his heart, just like the Fox did. And that's why he also made it possible for you to hurt him. You understand?"_

_"But I'm responsible for helping him heal," _she finished for him. It was as simple as that.

Her father nodded again._ "When you're ready, Gracie," _he murmured_. "When you're ready."_

She's ready now.

She squats down before him, picks up one of the boots, gazing up at him in a silent request for permission. "Just ...let _me_, Uncle Steve. Please."

He watches her wordlessly for a few beats, then nods, and she gets to work, careful and meticulous, chewing on her bottom lip, as she tries to gather her thoughts. She can feel his gaze on her all throughout, but as she straightens back up, he looks away again, staring mutely at the rumpled sheets on the bed beside him.

She hears the door squeak open behind her, knows instinctively that it is her father, coming to provide her moral support. She smiles despite herself, a warmth of gratitude washing over her, and squares her shoulders.

"Uncle Steve," she begins, placing her hand back on top of his. He flinches, drags his gaze cautiously back to her. The look on his face reminds her of a cornered animal, defenseless and frightened, waiting to be struck down, and she swallows against a suffocating wave of guilt that the analogy brought with it. "I wanted to say... to tell you that I'm sorry for how I acted... what I said, I... I didn't mean it... _any_ of it."

He nods tightly, gives her a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I know, Gracie," he says softly, throwing a brief look in the direction of the door, where her father is hovering in obvious worry, ready to jump in should she need his assistance. "It's okay."

She bites her lip, fighting the urge to scream out her frustration. "No," she shakes her head roughly, "no, it's not." She curls her fingers tighter around his wrist, puts all of her conviction into her next words. "Danno says... he says that our words have power over others, that if we're not careful with them, we can really hurt the people we care about, people we love. And I ...I hurt you. Really badly. And there's nothing okay about it because I don't ever want you to be hurt, Uncle Steve. I don't..." Tears begin to pool in her eyes, blurring the pale face before her. She blinks them away, never relinquishing her hold on him.

"You're more than an uncle for me. You're... you're my Danno's Steve, you're _my_ Steve. I ... I get mad at you sometimes, but I get mad at Danno, too, and I love him. And I love you, too, Uncle Steve. I love you _so_ much! And when I thought that you were... that I would never see you again..."

She chokes on a sob that tears out of her throat, loud and pitiful, and feels a pair of strong, familiar arms wrap themselves gently around her shoulders. She lets those arms pull her in, buries her face in the wide, muscular chest, letting the tears that are streaming down her face, soak into the thin fabric of his shirt.

"I can't... I can't _not_ have you in my life, Uncle Steve," she whimpers, sniffling in between the haltingly spoken words. "I need you too much. We all do – me, Danno, Auntie Kono, Uncle Chin, Uncle Lou. Please, believe that! And please... please, forgive me..."

She hears him heave a shaky, watery breath, his arms tightening around her. She feels a brush of his lips on her hair, a puff of his breath over her ear. "I already have, Gracie, long ago," he assures her gruffly, and she knows he's telling her the truth. Danno was right when he said that Uncle Steve has a big heart, and she smiles with tearful gratitude as she listens to that heart's soothing, reassuring beat. "I love you, too."

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><p><strong>Fin <strong>


	20. Author's Note

**I received so many reviews, so many messages of support since the posting of the RPF installment. And I wanted to thank you all for your warmth and kindness. It's greatly, greatly appreciated. **

**For those of you who don't know yet, the latest story (all 4 chapters) is available on Archive of Our Own under praemonitus_praemunitus. I had no idea when I initially published the story here that RPFs weren't allowed. I've seen many, MANY other RPF stories on this site, and I assumed I was safe to do so as well. Obviously, I was wrong in that assumption, although I still don't understand the reason behind publicly outing someone. Pointing out someone's mistakes (mistakes that can get someone in trouble) can always be done privately to AVOID getting that someone in trouble. Unless, of course, that was the intention. **

**I've spoken to many of you and you know that I haven't been in the best of moods to write lately. I will be taking a break from writing for a while (hopefully, not a long while, but it all depends on how the muse feels, and right now she's on a fritz). I thank you for your continued support and once again apologize for "stirring things up" and offending anyone's sensibilities.**

**TBC (fingers crossed)**


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N This one came out of the blue. Literally. I came home after a run, flopped down on the grass, looked up at the sky, the leaves of the tree, the sunlight coming through them and... this is where my mind went. It's short and plotless, just like the rest of this collection. (and free from controversies, from what I can tell, at least :)) I hope you enjoy**

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><p>There's a lush green canopy above him, the small oval-shaped leaves fluttering in the gentle wind, the sun reflecting playfully off the glossy surface. No sound filters through save for the soft rustling of those leaves above him, no sensation encroaches upon his skin but the warmth of the sun's rays and the cool softness of the grass underneath him. He feels peaceful here, lazy, sleepy...<p>

_slap!_

His head rolls to the side from the impact and he moans despite himself, scrunching up his face at the unexpected violence that crashes so rudely upon his bucolic idyll.

"..'ncle St've...," floats plaintive and shaky above his ears. "..'ncle Steve, please!"

He blinks sluggishly, cringes as the sunlight comes down particularly blinding in between the briefly parted leaves. A face inserts itself into his field of vision. It's all washed out and blurry, but he recognizes it nevertheless, and recognition brings in a sense of urgency and a dire need to focus. And pain. Lots and lots of pain. Everywhere. Burning through every nerve ending and overloading all other senses.

He gasps and slams his eyes shut, attempts to curl away from the all-engulfing agony. But there are two small hands that settle flush against his cheeks, preventing all movement, and the same familiar, trembling voice lets out a pleading, tearful, "Please..."

He clenches his jaw hard, nearly grinding his teeth to dust. But after a few seconds the near-blinding pain subsides somewhat, his breathing leveling out. He's in control again... more or less.

"Gr..ace?" he croaks out, letting his swimming gaze anchor on the little girl beside him. She looks pale, terrified, her face stained with tear-streaked dirt. And blood, he realizes with a start, there's blood on her, too. Smudged across her left cheek, smeared across the front of her dress.

The sight of it sends a jolt of ice-cold fear straight through his core. "You... hurt?" He sits up, ignoring a vicious stab of pain that rips through his midsection nearly taking his breath away. His trembling fingers reach for the bloodied fabric, and that's when he notices that there's blood on them, too.

He frowns at that, hears Grace's stumbling, "I'm not, Uncle Steve. The blood... it's... you're... you've been..."

He looks down at himself then: at the gaping wound in his side, the jagged gash that runs from his right knee down to below his calf, blood pooling inside his boot. "Oh..."

Memories assail him in a rush. The phone call about Grace's abduction, the smug computer-modified voice telling them that the girl's father should come alone and unarmed to the coordinates specified – a cabin on Molokai, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. The argument with Danny – because, yeah, the abductors had Grace, but they didn't call Danny by name and maybe, just maybe, they don't know what Grace's father looks like. Grace has dark hair, Steve has dark hair, Steve had argued then, it could work. B'sides, when it came to doing crazy solo extraction missions deep in the Hawaiian forest, Steve was the only logical choice.

He remembered flying out here with Danny and Chin, leaving them waiting at a designated spot at the start of the trail, while he took off through the densely wooded area, a hastily drawn map and a well-hidden knife his only companions.

Grace had been surprised to see him, he could tell. But she was a smart kid, and she hadn't said a word to break his cover. And there wasn't much time for her to talk anyway. Steve hadn't lingered. The moment one of the men began patting him down, exposing his own gun shoved carelessly into the back of his pants, Steve made his move. It all went smoothly, until the last abductor managed to get off a lucky shot that tore into Steve's abdomen, flinging him backwards and knocking him head first into a metal cabinet that stood next to the dirty mattress that Grace was huddled on. The room had blinked out on him then, his ears roaring, but Grace was still in danger, and so he scraped his way back to the surface just in time to see the man advance upon him, gun in hand. He had moved without thinking then, reaching for the knife he had hidden in his right boot. His fingers were shaking so badly that he couldn't quite wrap them properly around the weapon and he ended up gouging a deep furrow across his own leg as he pulled it out. But it didn't matter then. The only thing that mattered was eliminating the threat and then getting Grace, getting her out, getting her to Danny. And that was what he did, what he tried to do, until his injuries caught up with him, until his body betrayed him.

He looks around, squinting against the vicious pounding headache behind his eyes. He remembers this place, vaguely. He passed it on his way to the cabin, or so he thinks. If he's correct, they probably got another 10-15 minutes to walk before they hit the main trail, and from there, it's another half hour to get to where Danny and Chin are waiting for them. Piece of cake. Piece of fucking cake...

He sucks in a deep breath, readies himself, pushes himself upward onto his feet. Pain and dizziness assault him at once, swift and merciless, and he sways drunkenly, fighting to remain upright, until that fight is hopelessly lost and he goes down hard onto his knees, a hastily thrown out arm – the only thing preventing him from faceplanting right back into the dangerously inviting grass.

Grace cries out beside him, and he can feel her hands on his arm as she tugs at him ineffectually, trying to raise him back up. "Please, Uncle Steve," she sobs, her grip becoming just shy of painful. "You promised me. You promised you'd take me to Danno. I can't... I can't do it without you. Please... Uncle Steve, I need you, please!"

The tears and despair in her voice are almost his undoing. She depends on him, and he made a promise to her father. And he'll be damned if he'll break it. He swallows thickly, pushing down the lingering nausea. Another minute and he's back on his feet again, steadying himself against the nearby tree trunk, as he waits for the pain to subside and for the forest to stop spinning around him.

"Come on, Gracie," he whispers hoarsely and wraps his arm around her trembling form as she tucks herself into his side. And as they stagger and stumble gracelessly down the path that wavers and fuzzies before him with every tortured step, he licks his hopelessly dry lips and urges them breathlessly along, reminding both her and himself to keep on going, because "Danno's waiting..."

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><p><strong>Okay, I'm gonna crawl back behind my rock and try to work on the other stories now :)<strong>


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N Oh, boy... Well, I can definitely say I didn't expect this kind of a response. (Although my wonderful beta did warn me that I shouldn't leave things unresolved like I did :)). I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to respond to any of you personally and thank you for your amazing, amazing response to the previous installment! What a welcome back! Wow... And, okay, I have a good excuse: crazy out-of-state wedding weekend, no real access to the internet. But I did get a chance to write a bit during the long drive there and back. And since so many of you asked and prodded so nicely... Well, here's part two/conclusion of the previous installment. I hope you enjoy it.**

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><p>Sweat runs in steady rivulets down his back, the shirt clinging uncomfortably to his fevered skin. Sweat is on his face as well, dripping into his eyes, the beads of it glistening on the edges of his eyelashes, washing out the swaying and swirling images before him.<p>

He trudges on, tortuously dragging one foot in front of the other, all of his energy going into simply keeping upright as his boots snag and trip underneath him.

_A little longer_, he tells himself. _Just a little longer_.

There's another set of hands on him, wrapped with fierce desperation around his midsection, tugging him along. _Grace... _Her grip is painful as hell, but, in all honesty, he probably needs the physical contact just as much as she does right now. It's the only thing that still anchors him here, in this reality. Stops him from giving in to the ever-thickening darkness that encroaches upon his vision, keeps him fighting for each subsequent step. Because there's no way, NO WAY, he's leaving Gracie alone out here.

So he grits his teeth harder against the pain and pushes himself onward, his dry, bloodless lips parting every once in a while to pant out a breathless encouragement. "A-almost there, Gracie... al...most ... there..."

Time crawls to a standstill, and he feels like he's wading through thick, viscous mud, each movement – a struggle that he is fated to lose. He knows it's inevitable, can feel his body shutting down and he is powerless to stop it.

He's stubborn, though. Too much for his own good, perhaps, but giving up has never been part of his makeup. He staggers forward, half-hooded eyes squinting at the grayed out blur of a path before him, fighting for focus that seems to slip away from him despite his best efforts. He can see a white blob that appears to be floating in their direction, drawing closer to them with each bubbly, oscillating movement. He can't tell if it's friend or foe. Can't even be sure if it's real and not some figment of his feverish imagination. He can't take any chances, though. Not where Grace's life is concerned. So he straightens out as best he can, tries to twist his uncooperative body so that he can shield the little girl that's clinging to his side.

Until she's not. Until she lets go suddenly and shifts away from him, running toward the undefinable glob of white in their path with a piercing shriek of "Danno!" The abrupt movement startles him, upsetting his precarious balance. He wobbles in place, tries desperately to right himself, to compensate for the unexpected loss of his unwitting support. But it's a futile effort. He's been running on fumes for God knows how long. His tank is empty, he's got nothing left to give.

Darkness closes in and gravity takes hold, and he topples forward heavily like a tree that's been chopped at the root. He never hears the frantic shout of his name, never feels a pair of strong, sure hands grab his shoulders, breaking his fall. The only thing that accompanies him into the blackness of oblivion is the hope that what he heard Grace shout was true, that Danny's here, that he's got them, that Grace is safe.

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He comes awake with a start, the images from his nightmare, the nightmare he lived through only a few hours ago, all too fresh in his mind. He scans the room wildly, his gaze landing on the small, pig-tailed bundle curled against his side, and he sighs in relief, tightening his hold on his sleeping daughter.

She looks perfectly at peace: her hair and skin washed clean, a fresh pair of child-size scrubs having replaced her torn, blood-covered dress.

_Blood. There was so much of it on her..._

When Danny had first laid eyes on her back there on that overgrown excuse for a trail, when he saw her wobbly, blood-stained figure stumble toward him, her face half-hidden in Steve's equally bloody shirt, he thought he was going to have a heart attack. In fact, he was pretty sure that this was what a heart attack felt like – his breath cutting out on him, his vision tunneling, a vise of paralyzing, ice-cold fear clamping around his chest and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until he could bear the strain no longer.

But then she saw him, and she was running toward him, screaming his name. And his brain, the tiny rational part of it that hadn't been completely taken over by blind panic, digested the simple fact of her movement, the reality of her jumping easily into his arms, the feel of her warm, solid body as she wrapped herself around him. _"She's okay!" _that rational part screamed at him as he hugged her back as desperately and tightly as he dared.

And then his gaze rose above the pig-tailed head, and his heart froze for the second time in so many seconds. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Chin rush past him, and then he was running, too, Grace having been set gently but swiftly back onto the ground.

_Steve..._

Danny shifts his gaze over to the man in the hospital bed beside him. He reaches over, picks up the limp, cool hand, and squeezes tight. There's no return movement, and Danny's not expecting any. Steve's just been through several grueling hours of emergency surgery. He's heavily sedated and weak from trauma and blood loss. But he's alive. _Alive! _ Which is more than Danny could've hoped for when he and Chin carried Steve's bloodied, unresponsive form back to the helicopter, when he prayed to all that's holy as he cradled his brother against him during the harrowing flight back, feeling the inexorably slowing beat of Steve's heart.

His brother made it. Scraped through after having coded twice on the operating table. Danny doesn't generally believe in miracles. But he does have two of those in his life. His baby girl. And Steve – his brother in everything but blood. A man who defied the odds again and again. A man who saved his life a thousand times over. Saved it again today by bringing back his reason for living, his Grace. A man whose presence by his side he needs as much as he needs the air to breathe.

He swallows down a watery lump that's lodged deep in his throat, runs his thumb gently across the bruised knuckles of his partner's hand.

"You sleep now, babe," he whispers, smiling with tearful gratitude at the slack, pale face. "You sleep and you get better. And I'll be here when you wake up." He squeezes Steve's hand again, hoping to pass his message through loud and clear. "I'll be right here."

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><p><em>Fin for now, but more to come in this series (fingers crossed)<em>


	23. Part I In darkness

**A/N Okay... So this particular installment was supposed to be a small one-shot. Ha!... **

**I'm still trying to figure out the reasons for Catherine coming back to Hawaii. I've seen some theories floating around about her being a CIA agent now. Taking that as a jumping off point and knowing that Danny is distrustful of her motives got me thinking. And... well... this is what I came up with (my muse always goes for the darkest possible options). Anyway, this might be a bit OOC for Catherine, but, then again, the whole end of season 5 with the two of them "happily reuniting" seemed to me like something out of the Twilight Zone, so...**

**Without further ado. **

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><p>The first time he awakens it's to a muddle of voices, disjointed sounds, flashes of lights and colors that don't quite form into anything solid or recognizable. He tries to concentrate, to raise his head that seems to be hanging low and heavy on his chest. A white-hot spike of pain stabs through his skull at this slight attempt at movement. He doesn't even have time to cry out before his tenuous hold on consciousness is obliterated in a spectacularly blinding supernova, and the subsequent darkness of a black hole swallows him right back up.<p>

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He's much more aware the next time he surfaces. He can hear words now, can recognize voices... voice... Danny's. He sounds worried. And pissed. Very, very pissed.

A memory washes over him. _Danny coming over after work. The two of them relaxing on the lanai, beers in hand. A strange noise from inside the house. Him going in to check it out. A movement from the right attracting his attention, diverting it from the danger behind him. Danny's shout of warning a split second before a sharp pain explodes in the back of his skull. Then ... nothingness..._

He force-swallows against a parched throat, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. A soft moan escapes his lips as an attempt to open his eyes is followed by a nauseating ratcheting up of pain.

"Good, he's awake," says an unfamiliar voice behind him. "We can begin."

He doesn't have time to fully comprehend the threat behind the words, when he feels something cold and sharp prick the skin in the crook of his elbow. He tenses in involuntary panic as he senses cold liquid spread through his veins, his mind taking him back to that dank, stuffy room in the back of a laundry facility, Wo Fat's gloating smile swimming before him in a drug-induced haze.

"What are you doing? What are you giving him? Stop it!" Danny's frantic voice cuts through the ever-increasing roar in his ears, momentarily grounding him.

Until he begins to lose feeling in his arms and legs and panic rears its ugly head once more. He wriggles desperately, dismayed to have his already sluggish movements hindered further by what feels like zip-ties that bind his wrists tightly behind his back, tying him to the metal chair he's sitting on.

"I see the drug is starting to take effect," the same unfamiliar voice delights above his ear, and he peels his eyes open just as someone's hand grabs him from behind by the hair and his head is pulled roughly up and off his chest.

There are two dark-clad blurs before him. One of them moves in closer, filling up his entire field of vision, until the bleary contours mold into a masked face. A gloved hand reaches out to further pry open his eyes, just as a beam from a penlight stabs viciously through each of them, reigniting the headache that never quite went away. He wants desperately to get away from the added torture, but his head is held in an immovable vise and he is helpless to do a goddamn thing.

His tormentor squints at whatever he sees in the light of his penlight, pulls back, and Steve is left to stare blindly at the space before him, waiting for his vision to clear once more. When it does, the two dark-clad goons have moved away, and he finds himself looking at a familiar face, bruised and bloodied.

_Danny._

The blond is sitting in a chair some five feet across from him, his arms tied behind him in a similar fashion. Danny's not looking at him, though. His gaze, dark and hate-filled, is aimed with deadly fury at a spot somewhere beside Steve. Their captors, Steve assumes. Because he can't follow Danny's gaze, can't even really blink. Can already feel his eyelids drooping on their own accord, as his entire muscular system seems to have turned to jell-o.

"What did you give him?" the blond grinds out, and Steve can hear the fear in his voice, buried under a heavy layer of rage.

"The drug the Commander's been injected with," the same disembodied voice chimes in, even as the hand pulling at Steve's hair tightens another painful bit, "is a modified paralytic agent. It's designed to act quickly and cause maximum paralysis of skeletal muscles, which is what the Commander is experiencing right now, I believe."

The man lets go of his hair, letting his head drop limply down onto his chest, grabs one of Steve's legs, pulls it up off the floor and releases it abruptly. The leg flops back down, a dead, useless weight, and Steve can hear the man's approving chuckle grate above his ear, shattering against Danny's growl of indignation.

"The drug is still in experimental stages," the man goes on, and Steve can hear him moving around, the booted feet circling around him like a shark around its prey. "We've only been able to conduct a few studies so far, and we don't yet know all the possible side effects or the duration of its action. But we have discovered one interesting side effect that this drug seems to produce."

The man stops somewhere off to Steve's left, and Steve can hear the rustle of clothes, wonders what the hell is going on.

"I don't know if you're aware of this, Detective Williams, but neuromuscular blockers such as this one only induce muscle paralysis. They don't reduce consciousness or pain awareness."

"Please," he can hear Danny beg suddenly, the fear in his partner's voice assaulting his ears, tearing at his heart. Oh, how he wishes he could open his eyes now, get out of this goddamn chair, help his friend. Because Danny's in trouble, he's sure of it. "Please," Danny repeats hoarsely and then floors him with his next statement, "He has nothing to do with this, I swear. Don't-"

"The nice thing that we discovered about this particular drug," the man continues unperturbed, his tone growing a shade colder, a touch deadlier, "is that it actually increases pain sensitivity. Quite significantly, too."

There's a shift in the air beside him, and in the next instant he feels something sharp and metal plunge deep into his left quad and his entire thigh explodes in a furious hurricane of pain. His breath cuts out momentarily, his heart muscle seizing from the onslaught, even as he tries to wrestle for control.

His head is jerked back once more, a gloved hand forcing his eyes open one after another, stabbing each with the same damn beam of light.

"Pupils are dilated," he hears. A new voice, its sound muffled by the thunderous roar of blood in his ears. He feels his shirt being ripped apart, something cold being pressed flat against his chest. "And he's mildly tachycardic, as well," the voice reports. "He's definitely reacting to the pain."

"Good," the first man commends. "Very good." And then his focus must shift back to Danny as he mocks, "Well, Detective? Are you enjoying this little demonstration?"

"I'm gonna kill you, you son of a bitch," Danny growls in response, and Steve smiles inwardly, Danny's terrier-like protectiveness of him pouring over his seared nerve endings like a soothing balm.

"Now, now, Detective," the man scolds icily. "Don't you know it's a bad idea to antagonize a person holding a knife in your partner's leg?"

Steve has a split second to think, _"Oh, a knife. Is that what that was,"_ before said knife is shoved deeper still, twisting viciously along the way. He howls on the inside, unable to make a sound. The pain is such that tears spurt forth from under his closed eyelids, and he can feel them stream down his cheeks, embarrassed and powerless to stop them.

"For shame, Detective," the man's voice mocks muffled above his ear as what he assumes is a stethoscope is pressed once again to his chest. "The Commander's heartbeat is going through the roof. Do you not care about your friend at all?"

"I already told you _**everything**_," Danny's voice breaks on the last word, chokes off on a helpless growl. "I don't know what else you need to know."

"I _**need**_ to know why you broke into Agent Rollins' car and downloaded files from her laptop. I **_need_ **to know what you did with the information you obtained. And I **_need_** to know who else you shared this information with."

The man's responding growl matches Danny's sound for sound as he seems to shift further away from Steve and toward the blond, but Steve's too stunned to focus on anything past the goon's words. Because _agent Rollins?_ Catherine? Catherine is an agent? Catherine is CIA? No, **NO**, it can't be. It doesn't make sense. And Danny? Danny knew? Danny broke into her laptop? When? How? _Why_?

"I overheard her talking to someone," Danny speaks again, and Steve forces himself to listen, past the breath-robbing pain, past the nauseating echoes of another betrayal that coil and twist around in his stomach like giant poisonous tentacles. "About Steve... about... about keeping tabs on him, reporting on... on his activities. It sounded... I just... I wanted to know what she was up to, to make sure she didn't hurt him. She's... she's already done enough of that." Danny trails off, heaves a deep sigh, perfectly audible across the small space that separates them. "That's the only reason. I didn't _**do**_ anything with that information, I didn't share it with anyone. I didn't have time. I swear."

_"He was going to"_, Steve realizes suddenly. _"That's why he came over that night. That's why he was so nervous, too. Dear god..."_

"That's a very noble sentiment, Detective," the man jeers, and Steve can hear him moving around again, can smell something burning nearby. "But I'm afraid it's not sufficient to convince me."

Whatever he does next sets Danny off again, and Steve can hear him rage and thrash against his bindings, rattling the chair. "Stop! Stop, please! Don't do this! I'm telling you the truth!" he yells and then his voice morphs into one of bitter desperation as he calls out, "How can you be a part of this? You claim you love him. How can you _**do**_ this?"

It takes his sluggish brain a moment to realize who Danny is talking to, but when he does... When he **_does_**... _"It has to be a joke, a sick, sick joke. Please, God, let this be a joke,"_ he thinks desperately, even as his stomach roils in knowing apprehension. And then twists sharply and painfully at the sound of a familiar, raspily strained voice.

"It's out of my hands, Danny. I'm sorry."

Bile pushes at his throat, and he feels like he's drowning, choking on it. But he can't swallow, can't breathe. His head is swimming, churning with images of Catherine, _his Catherine_, dressed in plain spy-favored black, standing over his slumped form, watching dispassionately as her associates, her fucking **_associates_**!, get their kicks out of torturing him. _**She **_is the third figure he saw, he realizes. _**She**_ is–

His thoughts are interrupted as the knife is jerked suddenly out of his leg, making his breath hitch at the brutality of the movement. Blood pours freely out of the deep wound, and he can feel it soaking into his pant leg, can hear the pulsating plop-plop-plop of it as it drips to the ground.

_"Artery,"_ he thinks numbly, _"must have nicked an artery." _

He has a brief second to wonder how long it would take for him to bleed out, to tell himself that dying might be a welcome option right now because he can't even begin to think about dealing with what he just found out. Doesn't _want_ to deal with it. Can't. His heart can't handle this shit anymore.

In the next instant a red-hot metal poker is shoved far into his bleeding wound and the smell of burning flesh – his flesh – assaults his nostrils seconds before every single nerve ending explodes with pain so overwhelming, he feels like he is being burned alive by a raging, merciless wildfire. Vaguely, he can hear Danny's voice angry and panicked, yelling for him from somewhere far, far away. He tries to listen, tries to hold on, to shove the pain away.

But it's no use, as the blaze of pain spreads outward from its pulsating epicenter like a vicious tsunami, obliterating everything in its path, until he knows nothing _but_ pain. And it is that pain that accompanies him into blackness.

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Cold water douses him, savagely ripping off the comforting blanket of sweet oblivion. He moans softly in protest, because this awareness shit, he doesn't need it. Isn't ready for it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And then it hits him: he _**moaned**_. He heard it. Heard the sound of it, albeit weak. Which means–

His head is jerked back once more, the penlight burning holes into each of his retinas. And he feels the fingers on his right hand twitch slightly in protest. _"The drug... it's wearing off,"_ his mind screams out, and his heart soars in response. He'll have control soon, he's sure of it. All he needs now is a sliver of a chance.

He receives it, mere seconds later, it seems. He doesn't know how long he's been out, but, however long it was, his partner seems to have made the most of it – antagonizing their captors to the best of his ability, probably throwing every barb he had at them (and Danny's got a lot of those barbs hidden under his tongue and they're sharper than goddamn porcupine quills). Until they couldn't take it anymore.

He catches the end barb of another exchange, hears a distinct thud of flesh striking flesh, a bark of pained but stubbornly mocking laughter. He isn't surprised to hear a growled out "I've had enough of this, Detective", followed by a furious stomping of feet in the direction of his person. "You asked for it."

And when he hears those feet move in behind him, he tenses ever so slightly in preparation. It's time.

The man behind him cuts the bindings, jerks him upward by his left arm in one swift move. The rough, jarring motion is like a stab of a sharp metal poker through his aching skull. The world fuzzies and dims around him, and he grinds his teeth to keep himself from passing out. Words are spoken above his ear, threatening, deadly. He understands none of them, throwing all of his energy into staying in the here and now. It's not much of an act when he sags weakly in his captor's grip, forcing the guy to readjust his hold on him. The man grunts, his gun hand sliding under Steve's right elbow to settle against his waist in an attempt to keep him upright.

Steve feels the coolness of the metal brush against his wrist, and it's now or never. Gulping down a swell of nausea, he shifts his arm just so, wrapping his uncooperative fingers around the gloved hand that's resting on the gun handle. His movements are uncoordinated and sluggish at best, but he is fueled by desperation and it's a powerful drug. He presses down on the fingers underneath his, forces them to tighten around the trigger as he twists the weapon in the direction of the second goon. He doesn't really have the time or the dexterity of movement required to take proper aim, but he's desperate and he'll take whatever he can get. The gun fires, and Steve registers a cry of pain and a thud of a fallen body. It's good enough a confirmation, and he moves on, throwing his entire unsteady weight to bend backwards the gloved hand still gripping the weapon, until a pained gasp precedes a slackening of that grip. In the same instant he pivots the barrel, pointing it blindly to where the man's chest is, and presses awkwardly on the trigger, once and then again, just to be sure.

The goon crumples wordlessly to the floor, and Steve wobbles momentarily in place, deprived of his unwitting support.

Putting one foot backwards to steady himself, he wraps his still numb fingers tighter around the weapon and swings it back toward the center of the room, prepared to face whoever's left. But there's only Catherine that remains, and even as his weapon comes up to bear on her, he hesitates.

She does not.

Her weapon discharges, and he has time to register the expression of shock on her pretty face before a bullet punches through his ribcage and he is flung backwards like a floppy-limbed ragdoll. His trigger finger clenches spasmodically, the gun firing as he falls. He thinks he hears a cry, a shout of his name, but those sounds are lost in the deafening whoosh of blood rushing in his ears. The back of his head bounces off the unforgiving concrete, and the world winks out for an instant, darkness closing in.

He pushes it back, weakly, stubbornly. Blinks sluggishly up at the grimy ceiling above him, as he lets his mind wander. He shouldn't really blame Cath for shooting him, he thinks, for reacting to perceived danger the way she did. Because it all happened so fast. Too fast, in fact. Mere seconds have passed from the moment he wrenched control of the gun and dispatched two of his tormentors. But he's trained to react quickly in such situations, to be able to tell friend from foe even in the chaos of a firefight, to stay his finger on the trigger when time is counted in bursts of evanescent, life-altering nanoseconds.

Catherine never got the same training he did, so she couldn't help herself in this situation, it isn't her fault. Yet, even as he tries to convince himself of that, a part of him still wonders darkly whether she could have stopped herself if she really wanted to.

His jumbled thoughts come to a grinding halt at a sudden added pressure on his chest, hard and painful, and then Danny's bruised, pale face inserts itself into the narrowing blurry tunnel of his vision. Danny is talking, his lips moving rapidly, frantically, but Steve can't hear him. Can't hear a thing, in fact, so he just settles for gazing dully up at his friend, tries to read his face for clues.

Danny looks unsettled, frightened almost. Steve can see it in the deep furrows of worry that mar Danny's forehead, the look of anguished despair in the sky blue eyes that bore into his, the glisten of tears trapped on the ends of his eyelashes.

He can't stand to see Danny so upset. Over him, no less. It's wrong, all wrong. He wants to tell him that it's gonna be alright, it's all gonna be alright somehow. But his tongue refuses to move and there's a crushing heaviness in his chest that's making it harder and harder to breathe.

He tries anyway, opens his mouth to force out the words, but all that comes out is a garbled call of his partner's name that chokes off on a harsh, wet cough. He feels something shift inside him, feels warm liquid bubble forth past his half-parted lips. Danny's wide-eyed terror-stricken face flickers before him like the light of a dying bulb, falters once and is gone, washed away in an unstoppable, all-encompassing surge of darkness.

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><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**The details here are left purposely vague, because I do have plans for a part II here from Danny's POV. I'll wait and see what you think about this one first, though ::ducks and hides::**


	24. Part II There will be light

**A/N Oh... my... Such an amazing response (and only one negative comment)... I'm floored. Also, more than a little worried that this next part may not quite live up to everyone's expectations here. **

**Well, here goes... ::cringes and crosses fingers::**

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><p>He was careful. He thought he was being so damn careful. Sneaking outside the reception hall, while Steve the Smooth Dog McGarrett was busy twirling and dipping Catherine around the dance floor. Getting into Catherine's car. Plugging Toast's little flash drive thingy to her laptop to download everything that was on it. Quickly. In and out. He was back before anybody had a chance to miss him, he was sure of it. So sure.<p>

But now he remembers Catherine's gaze on him, heavy and distrustful, when he stepped back onto the crowded dance floor. She must've suspected something. Must've seen him leave.

_Shit!_ All he wanted was to find out what her game plan was. So he could warn his friend, give him a heads up. Maybe come up with a plan of his own to keep Steve from getting hurt yet again.

He scoffs bitterly, his eyes scrunching up in worry as he watches his partner's awkwardly slumped form. _"Way to fail spectacularly there, Williams,"_ he berates himself.

The collar and back of Steve's white t-shirt are soaked in blood. And Danny knows the old adage that head wounds bleed a lot, but the way Steve got hit, the brutality, the force behind the blow that took him down – Danny feared the bastards had actually cracked his skull. The fact that his partner remained unconscious for such a worriedly long period of time and the fact that he seemed to have trouble tracking what was happening around him even before he was injected with the damn chemicals did nothing to allay those fears.

Danny had put up a struggle at first, because there was no fucking way he was gonna let some ski-masked ninja wannabes get him to go with them quietly. Especially not after what they did to Steve.

But a yelp of pain from one of them in response to Danny's furious elbow strike had stopped him short. Because that yelp, that voice, he recognized it. And he knew. He knew right away what that meant, what this attack was all about. And as another's first slammed into his temple, driving him, barely conscious, down onto McGarrett's living room floor, a single thought twisted reprovingly in his foggy brain, "I'm so... SO sorry, Steve."

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He snaps and rails and taunts, does his best to antagonize them. Catherine most of all. Yes, Catherine most of all.

She had taken her mask off long ago, having realized the futility of it after his first verbal jab directed specifically at her. And he enjoys seeing her flinch with every barb that hits home. But it doesn't make the sick feeling that had settled in his stomach the moment he recognized her go away. Neither do her timidly worded pleas for her associates to keep their alleged promise of not harming Steve.

Because here Steve is, being tortured. Endlessly, brutally, with a callous efficiency of a soulless professional. And Catherine looks on with barely a whimper of protest, as if none of it matters to her, as if her purported love, her loyalty to the man who has given her his everything deserves no more consideration from her than last year's snow.

He starts out angrily defiant, refusing to make it easy on them, refusing to give them what they want. Because these CIA spooks, he's dealt with them before, and he hates them with a passion. He lets them know as much. They ignore his anger as if he were nothing more than a puny Chihuahua barking up at an 11ft tall elephant, but they take issue with his recalcitrance. And when one of the men – the tall one with squinty blue eyes, piercing and frigid as hell – twists the knife deeper into Steve's leg, and Danny sees his brother's chest heave violently in response and notes in dismay a glisten of tears on his pale cheeks, his defiance vaporizes like a drop of water on the desert sand. Because, God help him, he hates seeing Steve in pain, but he knows his partner, knows how tough he is. Hell, the man can have a limb blown off and still claim that he is perfectly fine. So, to have Steve – the toughest bastard he ever knew – reduced to tears, the pain must be unimaginable. And Danny can't... can't be the one responsible for causing his brother that much pain. He just can't.

So he talks. Rapidly, desperately. Tells them everything he knows (which isn't much by all accounts). About a dozen or so encrypted email exchanges between Catherine and someone with a coded address name that looked suspiciously like a distorted, backwards-spelled Shelburne. About scores and scores of surveillance photos of Steve, taken well before Catherine's purported arrival on the island. Months before, from the looks of it. (The mere fact that she could do that – lie to Steve about staying in Afghanistan, spy on him for weeks on end, violate his trust, his privacy that way – it set Danny's teeth on edge, made him want to hurt this woman. Badly.)

He wasn't working _**for**_ or _**with**_ anyone, he assures them (because Toast is a good kid and doesn't need these guys coming after him as well). All he was trying to do, all he _**wanted**_ was to look out for his friend, to keep him from getting hurt.

He looks straight at Catherine when he says that, furious and ruthlessly accusatory. Catherine blinks rapidly and drops her gaze, then flicks it over to the blue-eyed man and her lips pinch tightly as if she's trying to hold back a scream. Danny follows her gaze and his breath chokes off on a wave of nauseating fear.

"No," he gasps out hoarsely as the blue-eyed man pulls a metal poker out of the burning fireplace, its end glowing red. And then he roars and thrashes against his bindings, alternating between murderous threats and desperate pleas for reason.

The blue-eyed asshole ignores him. "That's a nasty-looking leg wound the Commander's got there," he observes pensively, stepping over to Steve, poker in hand. "I think we better cauterize it. Can't have him bleeding out on us now, can we?"

Without further ado, the smug bastard jerks the knife out of Steve's thigh with his free hand and tosses it aside, smiling almost gleefully at the thin stream of red that begins to drip steadily onto the floor. In the next breath he raises his other arm and shoves the sizzling hot metal straight into the open wound.

Danny screams. He screams at the blue-eyed spook – a walking dead man, as far as Danny's concerned. He screams at Catherine, because how can she let them do this? He screams until his voice gives out and tears of helpless rage stream down his cheeks. He'll rip them apart, he swears. He'll make them pay.

The blue-eyed man grows weary of his screams. "Shut up," he tells him.

"Make me," Danny growls back in a moment of insane, desperate insouciance, hoping that if they turn their attention to him, they'll leave Steve alone.

It works, for a while, at least. And Danny rolls out New Jersey's choicest insults that would make his father's whole fire station crew blush like a bunch of twelve-year-old virgins, and he rejoices at every retaliatory blow directed at his body, because they are no longer hurting Steve.

Eventually, though, he goes too far and they grow tired of his game. "I've had enough of this, Detective," he hears above him, and he blinks blood out of his eye, squinting in an attempt to focus, just as the menacingly ground out, "You asked for it", freezes the blood in his veins.

It all happens quickly, too quickly. One moment his brother is being jerked roughly out of his chair, and in the next, two of the goons are dead and Steve wobbles slightly in place before turning to point the gun at his prodigal girlfriend. The thing, the _devil _of it is that Catherine's got her gun trained on him, too. And Danny doesn't even have time to rejoice at the Super SEAL's ability to once again beat the impossible odds, when she pulls the trigger even as he sees the barrel of Steve's gun move slightly off target in recognition of who was standing before him.

Horror seizes his throat, his breath choked off on a broken scream of his brother's name, as he watches him jerk with the impact of the bullet and fall backwards, his arms flopping limply at his sides. For a second, for one brief, horrifying second he actually thinks that this is it. Steve's dead. She killed him. She fucking killed him. But then his panic-numbed consciousness registers a feeble wheeze of a breath, a sluggish flutter of eyelids, and a shroud of crushing despair is ripped aside by an overwhelming sense of urgency. Because Steve's alive and he needs help. Now.

Something that sounds suspiciously like a sob reaches his ears and he turns his attention to the last (wo)man standing. As much as he wants nothing better than to rip her heart out with his bare hands, he needs her now. She is the only one that can set him free, and he needs to get to Steve. _Pronto_.

She stands hunched over slightly, her gun hand hanging limply at her side, her other – clutching at her bleeding shoulder. And it takes Danny a moment to even understand why she's bleeding, to remember the sound of a second gunshot, to realize that Steve's finger must've tightened reflexively on the trigger when he was hit. He should feel some vindication from that, he thinks, but the feeling is hollow, the price too exorbitant to make any of this right.

"Catherine," he calls, his voice cracking with tension as he wriggles helplessly in place. "I need your help. Please, let me out of here."

She turns her face toward him then, pale and tear-stained, her large brown eyes blinking dumbly at him as if she were waking up from a dream. "I didn't mean to," she murmurs dazedly, shaking her head. And, dammit, if she doesn't sway a bit drunkenly when she says that, looking for all the world as if she's about to pass out. Danny really doesn't have time for this shit.

"Catherine!" he snaps, uncaring for the way she flinches at the tone of his voice. "I need you to untie me right now, please. I need to get to Steve."

She swallows nervously, gives him a tight nod. Moments later there's a snap of the plastic behind him and his hands are free. He doesn't hesitate. In the next breath he is already on his knees at his partner's side, his outer shirt pressed hard against the sluggishly bleeding wound in the middle of his chest.

He can hear Catherine move around behind him. He doesn't bother to look at what she's doing, doesn't care. All of his attention right now is on the barely conscious figure on the ground before him, and the only thing he needs Catherine to do is call a goddamn ambulance. He tells her as much, all the while keeping his focus on Steve.

"I didn't mean for it to happen, Danny. Any of it. I was just doing my job. I couldn't... I didn't think they'd... I didn't have a choice. You have to believe me." Catherine's voice fades into a near whisper, shaking with tears as she talks. She's waiting for him to respond, he realizes. Hoping for what? His forgiveness? Absolution?

"It's a free country, Catherine," he retorts mercilessly without looking back. "I don't have to do anything I don't wanna do."

She falls quiet after that, and Danny doesn't mind. He keeps the pressure on Steve's wound and talks and talks and talks to his brother, trying to keep him awake until help arrives.

When it finally does arrive, he isn't surprised to find Catherine gone.

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

He blinks himself awake, cringing as his sore muscles protest the abuse of yet another night spent in a plastic chair. Passing his hand over his eyes to stubbornly push back sleep, he flicks his gaze over to the digital clock that stands on the small bedside table. _05:59 a.m._ Almost morning. He can already see the darkness fading, the night slowly ceding ground to the newly awakening dawn.

Sighing, he turns his attention back to the man in bed and frowns in confusion, caught off guard by the intense and surprisingly clear gaze that meets his.

"What are you doing awake?" he chides softly, reaching over to clasp the hand resting on top of the thin hospital blanket – a move he's done often over these past two weeks. "You heard what the doctors said, you need your rest."

Steve blinks tiredly at him, shakes his head. "Couldn't sleep," he whispers back, the pale lips twisting into a faint, apologetic smile.

Danny sits up straighter in his chair, worry instantly taking over. "Are you alright?" he questions, leaning closer to his friend, his eyes raking over Steve's recumbent form. "You hurting?"

"No." The response is a barely there whisper, and Steve is decidedly not looking Danny's way when he says the words, and Danny's bullshit meter is going off the charts.

He moves to rise, because he's certain now that his friend is, at the very least, in agony, and he needs to get his doctor in here, pronto. Steve clenches his hand, forestalling his movement. "I'm fine, Danny, really," he says as if reading his thoughts. "I just..."

"What?" Danny sits back down reluctantly, ready to press the call button at the first sign of distress. Because there'd been quite a few scares, quite a few bad nights over the two weeks that Steve's been bound to the hospital bed. And even though the doctors assured him that Steve is now well on his way to full recovery, he doesn't want to take any chances. "What is it?"

"I've been trying to remember what happened that day...," Steve begins haltingly, his gaze fixed on the blanket he's got twisted between the fingers of his other hand. "The doctors... they tell me that... with my head injury... I may never recover some of those memories... that I'm lucky to remember anything at all."

"Actually, I'm pretty sure they said you were lucky to be alive," Danny retorts, because he can't help himself, because the memory of Steve's blood flowing unchecked between his clenched fingers is enough to still keep him up at night.

Steve shows no sign of hearing him, though, lost in his own thoughts. "I keep having these dreams," he murmurs, the words barely audible in the quiet of the waning night. "...these flashes of... images, faces. There's... there's you and ... and Catherine... and... I keep seeing these things that ... that don't make sense... I...uh..."

He trails off, flicking a quick, hesitant glance at Danny's face. And Danny knows, he _knows_ he isn't quite successful at keeping his emotions in check at the mention of Catherine's name, knows that some of what he's feeling must have shown on his face, because Steve's eyes narrow ever so slightly, his dark brows pulling together in grim realization.

"It wasn't a dream, was it?" Steve asks simply, and Danny can't but nod reluctantly, wincing at the way his brother's face scrunches as if in pain.

"Tell me," Steve demands, his voice tight with tension that simmers just under the surface. "Tell me everything."

"I don't think that's such a good idea, babe," Danny hedges. Because Steve's still weak, still recovering, and this thing with Catherine might just be enough of a blow to cause a setback. "It's not–"

Long fingers tighten gently around his hand, the dark blue eyes boring pleadingly into his own. "I need to know, Danny. Please."

He relents, because how do you say "no" to someone who's looking at you with such trustingly imploring and brokenly desperate hope. He tells him as much as he dares, as much as he thinks Steve can handle right now in his weakened state, trying his best to soften the blow. His best efforts to spare his friend another heartache are to no avail, however, as whatever bits and pieces of memories that have haunted Steve in his sleep seem to have combined with Danny's halting, censored account to paint a picture that, if not altogether complete, is still, unfortunately, complete enough.

His brother's face is deathly pale by the time Danny's done retelling him the events of that awful night, Steve's hand trembling slightly in Danny's grasp.

"She didn't deliberately set out to hurt you, Steve, if that makes any difference," Danny adds quietly, knowing in his heart that it really, really doesn't. No more than it made for him when Catherine tried to give him her tearful excuse. Still, as much as he hates Catherine for what she did, he has to be honest here. He owes Steve as much.

"My guess is, she was desperate for help in Afghanistan and the CIA... Doris... gave her what she needed at the time. With strings attached, of course. Her being asked to spy on you was more than likely part of the deal. And I... I really don't think she thought this through."

It's the truth. It's what Danny believes. And it's about as helpful as an umbrella in the middle of a typhoon.

"I'm sorry, Steve," he finishes lamely, gripping his partner's hand tighter with both of his. And he is. For everything. For sticking his nose in where it didn't belong. For getting Steve into this mess. For being unable to stop his brother from getting hurt. "I am so fucking sorry."

Steve shakes his head, a barely perceptible gesture. "You've nothing to be sorry for," he objects hoarsely, drops his gaze back down onto his blanket.

A moment of awkward silence follows, and Danny doesn't quite know how to fill it, because Steve's got that blank expression on his face, that walled-up, impenetrable mask he dons whenever he hopes to keep the rest of the world away. He fumbles inwardly, desperately searching for a way to reach his friend, to break through this barrier before he immures himself in there for good.

"Can you... uh... can you give me a minute, please?"

Steve's dull, raspy voice startles him out of his frantic musings and Danny blinks down at him, confused and more than a little concerned. Because he knows Steve, and leaving the man alone now, after dumping all this on him, is pretty much the worst possible thing he could do.

"I'm not gonna do anything stupid," Steve murmurs, as if reading his thoughts. "I just need to be alone for a bit."

Danny hesitates, because Steve's still avoiding him, still refusing to meet his questioning, worried gaze. He opens his mouth to object, but Steve pulls his hand out of Danny's grasp, effectively severing their connection.

"Please, Danny." And Steve's voice sounds strained now as if he's trying to hold something back and failing miserably.

Danny complies. God knows why, but he does. He doesn't go far, though, nor does he stay away long. Two-three minutes, tops. All of them spent pacing wildly up and down the hospital hallway, ignoring the curious looks thrown at him from the nurses' desk.

The events of two weeks ago, the terrifying knowledge of how close he had come to losing his best friend had shaken him greatly, and the subconscious need to stay close to the man, to keep a watchful eye on him for both of their sakes had not released him since that day. So when he passes the nurses' station for the fifth time and his feet carry him toward Steve's room even without conscious thought, the only thing that surprises him is that he had lasted as long as he did.

He blinks a few times, giving his eyes time to adjust to the shadowy ambiance of the room after the much brighter lit hallway. Steve is lying hunched over on his side, his back to the door, and Danny almost moves to walk back out, thinking that his friend has fallen asleep. But then he hears a slight hitch in his brother's oddly irregular breaths, notices a slight tremble that runs through his curled up frame with every such faltered breath. Understanding dawns, and he feels his own breath cut out momentarily as the depth of his brother's emotional devastation is laid bare before him in the man's tortured, silent cries.

He hesitates no more than a moment before crossing the room in quick, determined strides and perches himself on the edge of the bed. Steve tenses slightly, having sensed his approach, and Danny's arm hovers above him in a flutter of indecision, then lands gently on his friend's trembling shoulder and stays there, warm and steady. Steve shivers a bit under his touch, but doesn't make a move to shift away, and Danny takes that as a good sign.

"I'm here, babe," he whispers, squeezing Steve's shoulder in support of his words. "Whatever you need, for however long you need it. I'm gonna be right here." He swallows past the uncomfortable tightness in his throat, smiles tearfully at the almost imperceptible nod of the dark head against the pillow. "We're gonna get through this, buddy," he says, putting as much conviction as he can into his voice. Because he has to believe it, for both of their sakes. "It'll be alright. It has to. I mean... with all the shit we've been pounded with lately... can't go any place but up, right?"

He hears Steve snort softly beside him and he finds himself smiling, too. And as he watches the first timid rays of sunlight stream cautiously through the half-open blinds, scattering the lingering darkness around them, he actually dares to believe it.

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><p><em>So... this is it for that particular adventure. Would love to hear your thoughts<em>


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N Ahem... So, I wasn't gonna write anything on last night's episode. I've already written enough on the subject of Catherine leaving in this series (the previous installment included). But then the muse couldn't quite leave well enough alone - she needed just a little bit more of certain something at the end of that eppy. **

**Warning: spoilers ahead (although, to be perfectly fair, this entire compilation is nothing BUT spoilers LOL)**

**I couldn't help thinking that there was another phone call (or text message) that Catherine needed to make (send) - would have been a decent thing for her to do, if nothing else. And I couldn't get over the lost, detached look on Steve's face when he was hugging Catherine. The SEAL was shutting himself off emotionally, and that is not good, not good at all. Not after he made such great emotional progress with Danny. So this is how this little coda was born.**

**As always, I can't wait to hear your thoughts.**

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><p>She hangs up the phone, wipes away the last of the tears. <em>"It couldn't be helped,"<em> she says to herself. _"I didn't have a choice."_

True as it may be, however, the justification does little to silence the feeling of remorse that settles heavy and uncomfortable in the pit of her stomach. She thinks back on the conversation she had with Danny earlier in the day, remembers the fierce protectiveness and worry in the blond's voice as he pleaded with her to be gentle with _**his boy's**_ heart. "He deserves to be happy," he had said, and she had agreed, but not for the reasons Danny thought. Steve does deserve to be happy, more than anyone else she knows. As much as she wants to be the one to give him that happiness, however, she isn't. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But as she looks ahead at the dark, military cropped hair of her taciturn driver, she thinks that maybe there is a way she can ensure that Steve at least has the right person at his side at the right moment to help repair the mess she left behind. Surreptitiously, she turns her phone over again, keeping it in her lap, scrolls through the list of contacts and shoots off a quick message to the one person she knows will understand, will know what to do. As soon as the message is sent, her finger presses down on the power button and she slides the phone back into her pocket. It's time to focus on other stuff.

H50* H50*H50

His phone beeps an incoming message, and Danny picks it up blindly, all of his attention riveted to the game on screen. It's an old rerun, a losing game from several years back, one that always managed to get his blood pressure up as he couldn't help yelling at the screen whenever his team fumbled another ball. It was a good way to distract himself whenever he was feeling nervous or unsettled about something, to get his mind off the bothersome subject so he could return to it later with a clearer head.

He's unsettled now, too. Has been ever since his conversation with Catherine. All this time he's been trying to convince both himself and Steve that all of Steve's fears were nothing more than groundless paranoia, pre-commitment jitters of someone who has never made one in his life to anything other than Navy. And he was genuinely happy and proud of Steve for having finally cast his safety harness aside and gone out onto the engagement springboard in preparation for a dive.

But Steve's doubts were his doubts as well, and Danny remembers all too clearly the raw pain that lurked within the depths of his friend's eyes for months after the mess in Afghanistan. Steve may act all tough and bulletproof, but on the inside he's just a broken little kid who's been hurt way too many times by those he trusted the most. And Danny, for one, can't stand to see him hurt again. That's why he went to see Catherine today. To feel her out, to look her in the eye and ask her straight out what she was planning to do. Because Steve didn't need another heartbreak. Not now. Not ever.

Catherine seemed tense, defensive, but she had agreed with him, said all the right things. And Danny was so happy to hear her say those things, so desperate for Steve to finally have the happiness he deserves, that he accepted her words at face value, didn't bother to dig deeper, didn't listen to his internal bullcrap meter that kept triggering off his alarm bells.

Yet, as he drove home, that conversation and Catherine's obvious discomfort kept gnawing at him, driving him crazy. He almost turned around and drove over to Steve's place, but he stopped himself at the last minute, remembering his own admonition to Steve about not giving in to negativity and fears. He needed to take his own advice. And so he did, throwing himself head first into the game. But even his favorite team's frustrating play could do little to distract him from the treacherous worms of doubt.

Absently, he looks down at his phone, clicks on the New Message icon. The name of the sender sends a cold shiver of foreboding down his spine. The content of the message – three simple, innocuous words – send him scrambling off the couch and out the door.

H50* H50*H50

"Stay here," he had told her, and she looked him straight in the eye and told him that she would like nothing more. But she never actually said "yes", did she.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" He hits the steering wheel in frustration, waiting impatiently for the light to turn green again. _How could he have been so stupid?_

Steve's house is only a few minutes away now, but his sense of urgency is so great that he is barely able to restrain himself from flicking on the lights and the siren. As it is, he tears forward as soon as he is able, the rubber smoking as it grinds against the asphalt.

"I'm sorry," her message said. _Sorry_. What has she done? What the fuck has she done?

He pulls up to the house, quickly taking in the scene around him. Steve's Silverado is parked in the driveway, so if the guy hasn't run off on foot or swam out to China, Danny should be able to find him. Danny purposely squashes the vicious part of his brain that wonders about the condition Steve's gonna be in when he does.

He finds him on the beach, no surprise there. Hands shoved deep into his pant pockets, Steve stands straight-backed and unapproachable just outside the tide line. The waves rustle ashore, stopping inches away from his bare feet before rolling silently back into the ocean. Steve doesn't make a move to get closer. It's as if he's deliberately denying himself even that small comfort, the calming feel of water against his skin. And in a moment of horrified realization Danny knows exactly what he's doing, sees all the classic signs in the impossibly rigid, robot-like stance of his friend. Steve's reverting back to the coping mechanism he used before Danny broke past his defenses and made him human again – the wall. It stands thick and impenetrable around his partner, holding all the feelings, all the emotions, all the hurt in, keeping everyone and everything else out. Danny hasn't missed **_that_** Steve at all.

_"Damn you, Catherine!"_

He swallows down a lump of apprehension, walks carefully to stand in front of his partner. "Hey, babe," he begins softly. "What's going on?"

Steve continues to stare blindly ahead of him, the only indication that he has heard Danny's question is a slight tightening of the man's jaw. "Nothing much," he says finally, his voice frighteningly hollow. "You were right before. She has her own plans. Always did. And they don't include me."

Danny bites his lip, wishes like hell he had raked Catherine over coals the moment she waltzed back into Steve's life, tortured her if he had to, until she told him exactly what was going on in that duplicitous heart of hers.

"Steve..."

"It's fine, Danny," Steve interrupts him in the same deadened voice. "I'm fine. You can go home."

He turns Danny's way when he says it and Danny feels his heart twinge in pain at the dull, lifeless look of his dark blue eyes. There's no sign of **_his_ **Steve in them, no trace of him. She had trampled him out of existence, made him hide far, far away just like his mother had done before. And at this moment here Danny feels the same surge of hatred toward Catherine that he had felt toward Doris all this time. For doing this to Steve, yet again. For rewarding him for opening up his sweet, kind, fragile heart by crushing it with another dose of hurt.

"Oh, babe," he says, his voice breaking as he steps closer into Steve's space, ignoring the way the taller man stiffens even more at his closeness, "you are so far from fine... You and fine are not even in the same galaxy."

Steve bites his lip, attempts to shift backwards, out of Danny's reach. Danny won't have it, though. He knows he needs to get through to Steve, to break him out of his emotionless shell, to let him grieve and bleed, so the man can heal again. Before the wall around his friend's heart is cemented for good and his friend is lost to him forever.

He blows out a deep, steadying breath and takes one last, deliberate step forward and wraps his arms around Steve's shoulders, pulling him in. Steve struggles against him, pushes back with an angrily growled out, "Let go!"

But Danny only tightens his grip, holding on for all he's worth, until their struggle drives both of them to their knees into the dampened sand.

"Danny, sto...stop," Steve chokes out breathlessly, his voice shaking with barely contained emotions. "Please..."

He's on the verge of breaking, his defenses crumbling, and Danny mercilessly pushes him over the edge. Raising one hand to cup the back of his brother's neck, he draws Steve's head down to his shoulder. "I'm not letting go, babe," he whispers hotly above the man's ear. "Not ever."

Steve's response is a shuddered breath that morphs into a rough, ragged sob that echoes deep in Danny's own heart. Tears of anguish burning deep in his throat, he rocks his best friend against him, as the SEAL cries silently against his shoulder, his body trembling with the intensity of his inner pain.

"It's gonna be alright, babe," Danny promises over and over, "You're gonna be alright. I'll make sure of it!" And he knows with a kind of raw, visceral certainty that this is one promise he'll do his goddamn best to keep. No matter what.

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><p><em>This is it for this particular story. <em>

_On a somewhat related note, I read a spoiler that there'll be an episode where Grace runs off to a teen party without telling her parents and Danny will be forced to go in and get her. And I thought, that sounds very similar to the "Sticks and Stones" installment from this collection. Another close guess for me. Exciting :) _


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N Oh, I honestly don't know what's wrong with me. I think 6x03 put me in a serious Steve-whumping mood. The muse just couldn't let this go. I'm sorry about this. Really, really sorry. I did leave a tiny ray of hope at the end there... sort of. **

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><p>"Please. Please, don't do this. My partner needs help."<p>

He takes a shaky step toward their unlikely attacker, his hands reaching toward her in supplication, but she backs heartlessly away from his blood-covered fingers, raises her shotgun higher in warning. Danny freezes, clamps his right hand once again around his bleeding shoulder, as he watches her with growing apprehension.

This wasn't supposed to happen. This was fucked up. Completely. Royally. He and Steve were only here to ask Ano Kapule a few questions, follow up on a lead. Instead, the moment they began questioning the fidgeting teen about his whereabouts on the night his classmate Cindy Mahoe was found brutally raped and murdered, the boy's mother walked out of the room only to come back moments later wielding a goddamn shotgun. Steve, who was standing closest to the door, didn't even see it coming, didn't get a chance to turn around fully, before she blasted him in the side, twisting him around and dropping him to the floor like a broken puppet.

Danny flicks his gaze worriedly toward his partner's still form, helplessly clutching the wound he earned in trying to leap to said partner's defense. How the fuck did this day get so messed up? How the fuck did they not pay attention to what the mother was doing; not get their guard up at her open hostility, her refusal to let them in the door?

_You were distracted, that's how_, another voice in the back of his mind replies. Bugging Steve to open up to you about whatever it was that happened between him and Catherine, arguing with him over his stubborn refusal to talk. Danny didn't call him that day, didn't want to intrude on his friend's special day. But now, in retrospect, he thinks maybe he should have, because something must have surely gone wrong with the proposal, because there had been no response to his cheekily inquisitive texts, no smugly happy smile on his friend's face when he came to the office the next day. So Danny tried his best to pry, to drag the information out of the scarily closed off SEAL. Yet all it did was made Steve angry and shut him down even more. And now...

The front door opens and closes with a bang, as the teen rushes back inside, his eyes bright with nervousness and excitement. "The car's ready, mom," he says, "let's go."

"Gotta take care of these two, first," Mrs. Kapule says calmly, as though she's made a career out of "taking care" of cops. "Get your cell phones and toss them in with the guns," she nods to Danny, accompanying her words with an unequivocal motion of her weapon.

Danny complies wordlessly, and his cell phone hits the floor inches away from his P30 and Steve's Sig he had thrown there earlier.

"Your partner's, too."

"He doesn't have one," Danny tries, but the woman narrows her eyes in distrust, pumps the shotgun with a quick, well-practiced move.

"Get his cell phone or I'm gonna put another bullet in him," she says simply, and Danny sees nothing but cold resolve in the dark depths.

Danny glares hatefully at the woman as he steps over to his motionless partner. "Please," he begs her again, as he reaches carefully into Steve's blood-soaked cargos to pull out a hopelessly stained cell phone. "He needs medical attention. It's not too late, let me call it in. Your son is just a person of interest at this point and you–"

"And I just shot a cop," she interrupts him icily. "My son will not be going to jail, Detective. And neither will I." "Ano," she calls out, and her son jogs over, ready to do his mother's bidding. "Help this one get his partner to the basement. Lock the door behind them."

"Yes, ma'am."

The teen is eager, too eager, and Danny all but shoves him away, as Ano pulls roughly on Steve's arm, eliciting a cry of pain from the injured SEAL.

"I got this," he growls, crouching protectively over his friend as he shoots daggers at the mother. "Keep your boy away if you don't want me to bust his nose."

Mrs. Kapule's response is an unkind sneer, but she nods in acquiescence. "Hurry it up!"

Danny grits his teeth and complies, doing his best to be as gentle as possible as he helps his barely conscious friend to his feet. Steve's ragged breathing and tightly clenched teeth tell him he doesn't quite succeed on that count. Nothing he can do about it at this point, however. And he just hopes that once he gets Steve down to the basement, he'll, at least, be able to make him comfortable and maybe even find something there to treat his wound.

So focused he is on their painful, careful forward progress that he doesn't notice the son getting closer, nor is he prepared for a hard shove to the back once his foot steps onto the basement stairs. All his effort going into holding Steve up, he stands no chance against the traitorous push, has no recourse against gravity that eagerly takes over his hopelessly wavering form. He doesn't even have time to cry out, tries to twist his body to protect his injured partner as best he can, as they both tumble heavily down the wooden staircase.

He feels the wooden edge of the final step dig painfully into his ribs, feels the back of his head bounce hard against the cement floor before their momentum drops them both onto his injured shoulder. Dimly he hears the click of the lock of the basement door above them, and then he feels no more.

H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50

He wakes to a loud banging noise that echoes with painful insistence inside his skull. There's something decidedly desperate in the irregular, frantic blows. Cautiously he peels his eyes open, squints at the grayish blur that greets his wavering vision. He blinks, blinks again and is rewarded by the gradual sharpening of the bleary picture before him.

Damp cinder blocks, wooden stairs, dim lighting. He's in a basement, he realizes, and he remembers being led here with Danny's help. Remembers the start of a cautious descent that turned into an uncontrolled tumble. Remembers the pain, blinding, explosive. He must have blacked out at some point, because he remembers nothing else.

He's no longer on the staircase, that's for sure. He's not even near it, from what he can tell. He is lying on a piece of relatively dry cardboard, his head cushioned by a something that feels like an overstuffed trash bag. The angle allows him to look down the length of his body, to see a stain of deep crimson that covers his entire right side from just below his ribcage all the way down to his knee. And an equally blood-soaked rag that's wrapped tightly around his middle. A familiar rag, a former shirt, ripped, blue, Danny's.

Speaking of... He turns his head in the direction of the noise, and there he is – Danny. Standing on top of an overturned plastic crate next to the basement window and swinging a piece of a rusted metal pipe to ram it hard against the thick glass. He shifts in an ill-thought-out attempt to get a better look and freezes as a wave of pain, heretofore muffled, comes roaring to the fore.

He slams his eyes shut, gnashes his teeth together as he rides out the whirlwind of nauseating agony.

"Those are glass... b-block," he huffs out weakly, when he's finally able to breathe again, "h-hard t... to break..."

Danny whirls in place at the sound of his voice, nearly toppling off the crate. "Steve!" In the next moment he's already jumping off the crate, hurrying to his side. "How you feeling?"

His voice is controlled, too much so, and Steve can feel the tension vibrating just below the surface, sees it in the way his friend's hands tremble as he runs them over the makeshift bandage, in the way his face darkens at the amount of blood he sees.

"You're bleeding...," he points out, avoiding Danny's question. He doesn't remember Danny getting shot. Then again, his memory of everything that happened since that first gunshot is hazy at best.

"It's fine," Danny dismisses him brusquely and stands up, absently readjusting a bloodied piece of a shirt sleeve he's got wrapped awkwardly around his own wound. He is decidedly avoiding Steve's gaze as he speaks, looking all kinds of nervous and fidgety and ... guilty?

Before Steve has a chance to organize his sluggish thoughts enough to make sense of this odd behavior, however, Danny grabs the pipe again, strides determinedly back toward the window and starts swinging furiously at the glass blocks. "But you, my friend, we need to get you out of here. Now."

Steve winces at the noise, frowning worriedly at his obviously agitated friend. He's missing something, he's sure of it. But his mind is too slow, too cobwebby and his train of thought gets lost before it even has a chance to pick up steam.

"It won't... work," he rasps out instead, pointing out the futility of Danny's efforts. Because the glass block is too thick; a metal pipe and one uninjured arm just won't cut it.

Danny's shoulders tense in preparation for another strike and he unloads his rage on the stubbornly intact window. "What do you suggest then, McGarrett? Huh?" he snaps, never taking his eyes off the task at hand. "Because I already tried breaking down the door, for the past twenty minutes or so, and the bloody thing won't budge. I think she's got it barricaded from the outside. So unless you can MacGyver us a little explosive device to blow that goddamn window out, I don't really see me as having much of a choice."

Steve nods, more to himself, since Danny is still refusing to look his way, and tries to raise himself up a bit on his elbow to look around. He tries to be careful, he really does. Tries to take it slow. It makes no difference. Pain rips through is midsection like a vicious sharp-toothed predator, and he goes rigid under its assault, gasping for the air that was siphoned right out of his lungs.

"What the HELL are you doing?" Danny's words explode above him, the heat of the man's hand on his shoulder burning through the blood-tinged haze that has momentarily overpowered his senses.

"...'m'kay...," he manages, and instantly knows that it's the wrong thing to say because Danny breaks their contact and springs back to his feet, starts pacing agitatedly in front of him, his fists clenched in anger.

"He's okay, he says," the blond mumbles, mocking Steve's words. "He's bleeding out in the middle of some nutjob's basement, but other than that he's just peachy."

Steve lets his head drop back onto his makeshift pillow, closes his eyes against the dizziness that is Danny. He gets it now, Danny's frustration. They're locked in here, with no apparent means of escape. And Danny's worried about him. Legitimately so, he might add, because he's not doing so well. He knows it, knows his own body enough to feel that it's beginning to shut down on him. Still, while there's life, there's hope, as they say.

"They'll find us," he whispers feebly, because he doesn't have the energy to even raise his voice at this point. "Chin knows where we went."

It's true, but, even as he says it, he realizes that Danny's fear has less to do with whether or not their team will find them than with their team finding them in time.

Danny shoots him a look, and Steve knows it even with his eyes closed, can feel the heat of his brother's stare on his own face. Another heartbeat and the heat is gone, and he listens in disappointment as Danny walks over to the window to resume his fruitless task.

"Stop, Danny," he begs him softly during a pause between strikes, "please."

"I need to get us out of here, McGarrett," Danny objects. "What would you have me do?"

"Sit with me."

It's a foolish sentiment, he knows, and he blames it on the blood loss that it rolls off his tongue uncensored. But he knows he's dying, can feel cold seeping into his bones as his life's blood is slowly slipping away, ebbing like water during low tide. He doesn't want to spend what little time he has left being away from his best friend. They've done enough of that already. Spent enough time being apart or bickering or acting aloof like strangers to last them a lifetime. And he feels like howling at the moon as he thinks of all the time they've lost. He doesn't want to lose these last precious moments as well.

Whatever else Danny was expecting to hear from him, this was obviously not it. He gapes silently at Steve for a long moment, and Steve holds his breath as he waits for him to make his decision. Finally, Danny relents, lets the pipe clatter uselessly to the floor as he makes his way slowly, almost hesitantly to Steve's side.

That hesitation is another stab in Steve's heart. They never used to be so awkward around one another. What the hell happened to them?

He grits his teeth in frustration, swallows in anticipation of pain as he tries to move his body into a sitting position.

The pain is excruciating, nearly enough to burn away whatever consciousness that remains. But the ruse works, and Danny drops to his knees beside him with a heartfelt curse, and Steve feels himself being pulled swiftly but gently into his friend's warm embrace.

"You're insane, McGarrett, you know that?" Danny growls above his ear, his voice thick with concern. "Why the hell would you do that?"

He smiles wanly, letting his head roll against his brother's shoulder to rest in the crook of his neck. "I've missed you," he murmurs, and feels Danny stiffen against him, hears his sharp intake of breath.

"What are you talking about? We see each other every day."

"Not like that," he objects with a minute shake of his head, "not work. I miss... hanging out together. Ocean, beer, us..." He trails off, exhausted, his eyes sliding closed.

Danny doesn't say anything, but Steve can hear a sudden change in his breathing, a suspicious catch, just as his brother's arms tighten almost imperceptibly around his shivering frame.

"Catherine left, you know," he whispers. He doesn't know why he feels the need to share this now of all times, but he may not get another chance and he doesn't want any secrets left between them.

"I think I knew... knew she would. Everyone does. You... you're the o-only one who stayed. And I p... pushed you ... away."

He snorts bitterly and gasps as an unexpectedly strong shiver rocks his frame, leaves him breathless and rigid with pain.

Danny's warm hand settles against his cheek, trembling, and he hears his brother's breath hitch once again as he moves to speak.

"You didn't push me away, Steve. We both screwed up, we both pulled away. But I never left. And I never will. But neither can you. You hear me, Steve? You can't leave either–"

Danny's voice cuts out, broken by a poorly stifled sob, and Steve feels the welcome embrace tighten even more around him with a desperate denial of one who's reluctant to let go. He relishes the loving warmth and security of it, even as he feels a pang of regret for his inability to comply with his brother's plea.

"I'm sorry f'r ...screwing up," he slurs, barely able to move his tongue anymore. "I'm glad you s'stayed. I couldn't... couldn't stand losing you..."

The last of his strength abandons him and he sags limply against his friend, letting the relentlessly encroaching darkness carry him away. A distant wail of sirens and Danny's tear-filled call of his name are the last things he hears.

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><p><em>Again,<em> _I'm sorry about this. This is just how it came out - all angst and whump. Rescue is coming, though. And, like I said earlier (or, rather, Cicero did), while there's life, there's hope. Right? Oh, well, I'm gonna crawl back behind my rock now. _


	27. Dum spiro spero - Hope dies last

**A/N Hello again :) I wanted to say HUGE thanks for all your amazing responses to the previous installment! You, guys, rock! Best motivation ever! ****I think I replied to all of you who left signed reviews. To the guest reviewers, thank you as well. Sorry I couldn't respond to you personally. **

**I think I've mentioned it at some point earlier in this series that installments that are longer than one chapter will be getting a title. So if a chapter you're reading has a title, it means it'll be continued in the next chapter. If it does not, then sorry, this is it.**

**And on that note... Here's the next installment _titled_ (see the note above) "Dum spiro spero - Hope dies last". I have no idea where that one came from. The muse has been jumping from one idea to the next, short-circuited and finally gave me this. So... here's me hoping (see what I did there?) you, guys, enjoy.**

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><p><strong>Dum spiro spero - Hope dies last. Part I<strong>

"Hey, buddy, how're you doing?"

His voice is steady, much much steadier than he feels, and he congratulates himself on that dubious accomplishment, thanks the Navy for helping him perfect the emotional shutters he'd been hiding behind his entire life. Because Danny doesn't need to see him falling apart now, doesn't need to know what it's costing him to stand here in Danny's room helpless to do anything but watch his brother slowly, torturously fade away.

His heart is shredded into pitiful bloody bits, his soul is crying out, desperately begging to be anywhere but here. Yet there's absolutely no place he'd rather be.

Danny turns his head minutely toward his voice, his face horribly pale underneath the oxygen mask that fogs weakly with each laborious breath. "Probably about as... shitty... as you... look," he huffs out, each word a supreme effort.

Steve furrows his brow at that, steps closer to the bed. "What's wrong with the way I look?"

A ripple of a smile flutters across the bloodless lips, Danny's face brightening momentarily with a faint shadow of amusement. "Guilty p...puppy... with ... aneu...rism face..."

Steve doesn't respond to the taunt, drops his gaze somewhere to the vicinity of his boots. As far as he's concerned the subject is closed, and he doesn't want to argue about it anymore. _Not when Danny's on his last– _

He grits his teeth, forcibly chases the morbid thought away. _It's not gonna happen. It's not. Danny's not gonna–_

"Hey..."

Danny's voice startles him out of the macabre quagmire inside his head, draws his attention back to his partner who is watching him with bleary-eyed concern.

"Sit, you... goof..."

Cold, trembling fingers grasp Steve's hand, weakly pulling down. He obeys, perching himself stiffly on the edge of the bed next to Danny; cradles the pale hand gently with both of his.

"...s'not... on you...," the blond wheezes out, and Steve purses his lips in disagreement. Because he's heard the argument before. From Danny, from the rest of his team. It doesn't make it any more true. Because he's the team leader. He and he alone is responsible for their safety. He should have been faster. Should have anticipated the suspect's move. Should have shot the damn aerosol bottle out of the madman's hands. Should have shoved Danny out of the way and taken the spray of the poison himself.

Danny's hand twists feebly out of his hold, smacks him on the thigh. "Idiot!" He raises his other arm, reaches weakly for his mask.

"Stop it!" Steve admonishes him softly, staying his friend's ill-advised movement.

"You s...top too...," Danny returns with a hint of his old fiery-hot temper, diluted almost to naught by the deadly poison that rages within his system. "Can't... can't keep... blaming... yourself... Wasn't your... fault."

"Danny," he starts to object, but his friend grinds the fingers of his left hand into Steve's wrist, calling him to silence. The strength in those fingers is barely that of a newborn kitten, and Steve nearly howls at the unfairness of it all, feels his throat burn with the rush of angry, powerless tears.

"You need... t... stop this... babe..."

Danny's watching him intently, his gaze serious, so SO fucking serious that it makes Steve want to run. Run like hell out of this room and curl up into a little ball somewhere in a dark, dark corner with his hands over his ears...

"You ...gotta snap... out of it... for Grace..."

...Because he knows what's coming, and he doesn't want to hear it. He can't...

"She's gonna ...need you ...after I'm..."

_...Please, Danny, don't! _

"...gone..."

He gnashes his teeth into his bottom lip, feels the familiar metallic wetness of blood against his tongue, feels Danny's fingertips brush feathersoft against his skin.

"It's not over yet, Danny," he insists stubbornly, even as the assertion rings hollow in his own ears, fear and despair making him grow cold inside. "This shit is deadly, yes, but there's an antidote. I _**know**_ there is. I called Joe. He's looking into it. He's–"

"s'no... time..."

He's right, of course. The poison is fast. Too fast. It left him bedridden within a matter of hours, began sucking the life out of him moments after the exposure. And that life continues to slip away with each passing second. At this rate, Grace, who's visiting Danny's parents in New Jersey, won't even make it back home in time to say goodbye.

Steve can't think like that. Can't let that happen. Won't.

"There is. Danny–" He sounds desperate, he knows, and his voice breaks traitorously over his brother's name, tears he's been fighting to hold back rushing through the cracks in the hastily constructed dams. He slams his eyes shut, grappling for control that slips away from him with every hitched breath.

Danny's fingers curl tighter around Steve's wrist and linger like that, the connection scalding despite the deathlike coldness of his partner's skin.

"I need you... to be there... for her, Steve... I need you... to promise..."

"Danny..."

"Promise... Steve..."

He looks up at his partner through a veil of tears that washes out the beloved, poison-ravaged features. He wants to scream, to rage, to roar like a wounded lion. He wants to break things. Heavy things, sharp things. With his bare hands. Until he's bleeding on the outside just as hard as he is on the inside...

In the end, he does the only thing he can do – he nods.

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"There's a lab here on the island, government contracted. They specialize in bioterrorism prevention, working against every scenario imaginable."

Joe is leaning against the wall as he talks, his face in the shadows. His voice is just cautious enough for Steve to know he's hiding something, something Steve's sure he's not gonna like. Still, he plows on.

"They have an antidote for the stuff Danny was hit with?"

Joe flicks his gaze over Steve's shoulder, waits as a nurse walks past Danny's room they're standing next to, speaking in hushed tones like two conspirators out of a bad spy novel, and disappears behind the doors to the operating room at the far end of the hallway.

"According to my source, yes," he nods finally.

Steve senses a "but" in there. "What's the catch?"

He sees Joe's face pinch uncomfortably even in the semi-darkness of the hallway. "They're not authorized to release it," he says, his voice strained with reluctance as he repeats the line of refusal that's been given to him. "It's a billion dollar research, and they're averse to wasting such precious resource without a credible bio-threat."

Steve feels sick. Swallowing hard against an explosive mixture of nausea and anger, he leans closer to his former CO, his face inches away from the older man's. "Credible? Foster was preparing to set the goddamn thing off in the middle of Ala Moana. Thousands of people, Joe. Thousands! If 5-0 hadn't stopped him–"

"But you did," Joe cuts him off, the words brutal in their simplicity. "The weapon was never released against the public, the bio threat was deemed contained."

"And Danny?" he near growls, his fists clenched so hard he can feel the skin breaking under the pressure of his fingernails.

Joe shrugs minutely, his eyes crinkling with regret. "They deem it a tragic but acceptable loss. In the line of duty. He knew the risks, he–"

Joe's head snaps back suddenly, bumping hard against the wall, and Steve shakes out his stinging hand, his chest heaving as he fights the urge to strike out again.

"Where's that lab, Joe?"

White watches him silently, raises his hand to wipe away the blood that's squirting out of his nose. "It's a bad idea, Steve," he warns.

Steve's not in the mood to listen. Looming over the man he had once considered his second father, he growls out, low and menacing, "I'm not gonna let Danny die because some asshole on government payroll decides that a good cop's life is not worth the money they spent creating the cure. So I'm gonna ask you again, where... is... the damn... lab?"

Joe relents, grudgingly, and Steve is already running out the door, his mentor's pleas to reconsider echoing uselessly in the empty hallway.

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He leans heavily against the wall of the building, doing his best to blend into the darkness as the sounds of his pursuers draw nearer.

He screwed up. Didn't have much time to plan out the op, because Danny couldn't afford to wait. And so he went in, on a wing and a prayer, so to speak, hoping his dumb luck would hold long enough for him to get his hands on the antidote that Danny needs.

He got what he came for. Along with a couple of bruised ribs and a bullet in his thigh.

He ducks down, avoiding the searching beams of the flashlights, holds his breath. Lights skid along the surface of the wall inches above his head, the voices move past, and he lets out a small sigh of relief that turns into a muffled groan as the wound in his leg makes itself known.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he rips off a strip of fabric from the bottom of his black Henley, wraps it around the wound as tightly as he can without passing out. His task complete, he leans backwards again, panting heavily against a rush of dizziness that makes him shiver. Reaching his clammy, trembling hand into his pant pocket, he curls his fingers around his precious cargo, drawing strength and resolve from its reassuring weight.

His car is parked on the adjacent street, away from prying eyes. He can make it there and then straight to the hospital, before his pursuers catch up. He can do it. For Danny.

He's at the hospital 15 minutes later, having parked haphazardly near the emergency entrance. It's nighttime, and the ICU floor is nearly deserted. Nobody stops him, nobody questions him as he limps down the hallway straight toward the nurses' station.

"Doctor Mahoe?" he asks, giving himself a moment of respite as he leans against the desk.

The nurse eyes him skeptically, frowning at his bruised appearance. But she knows him. Has seen him enough times since this nightmare began not to question his need to see Danny's physician.

"She has just gone in to see your friend, Commander," she supplies. "If you want to–"

He doesn't wait for her to finish. The timing is perfect, and he breaks into a hobbling run in the direction of Danny's room, gritting his teeth against the merciless jabs of pain that follow his every step.

He finds the doctor leaning over Danny's still form, and his heart drops as he watches her adjust the ventilator straps around Danny's head. Danny was still on oxygen mask before he left. And now this? Such a drastic turn for the worse in a matter of hours.

He gulps back a lump of despair, forces his mind back on task. He's gonna turn this thing around. Right now. That's what he's here for.

"He's still holding his own." Doctor Mahoe's gentle voice draws his attention away from his partner's slack, sallow features, and he glances her way, his chest constricting at the look of sad sympathy on her round, kindly face. "He was having trouble getting enough air in his lungs, so we had to switch him over to the machine to assist him. But he's still with us, still fighting."

Steve nods, momentarily finding himself unable to speak. He reaches into his pocket instead, pulls out the vial.

"Give him this," he rasps, handing it to her. "It's the antidote to what he was exposed to. It should help."

The doctor takes the vial from his outstretched hand, frowns hesitantly at the bloody fingerprints that dot its silvery surface. "Commander, I–"

"Do it, please!" he snaps, ignoring the way she flinches at his raised tone. "There isn't much time!"

She hesitates still, and he's already thinking about pulling his gun on her to make her do what he asks, but she must read something in his dirt and sweat-covered face, in the wild, desperate gaze that meets hers. She relents with a short nod. And Steve sags against the door in relief, as he watches her prepare the vial, watches her inject its life-saving contents into his friend's vein.

"Thank you," he breathes, when she looks his way again.

She purses her lips in displeasure, points to his injured leg. "I'm not gonna ask how you came by this antidote, Commander," she says, sounding every bit a strict Sunday school teacher, "but you're bleeding all over the floor in my patient's room. I'm gonna have to ask you to step outside, have one of the nurses take a look at your leg."

He shakes his head stubbornly, motioning to his partner's prone form. "I need to see... to know if it's working."

She cocks her head, places her hand gently but firmly on his shoulder. "I promise to let you know the moment something changes, but I can't have you bleed out in here."

"I won't–," he starts to say, but a commotion outside Danny's room cuts short his thought, and he only just has time to straighten himself back out, when the door he's leaning against is jerked open and he finds himself face to face with his three pursuers, the barrels of their guns pointed angrily and unerringly at his chest. His time's run out.

He schools his features into a mask of calm indifference, forces himself to ignore the doctor's surprised gasp at his side.

"Your weapon, please, Commander, and the vial." The taller one of the three holds out his hand, his face dark with blooming bruises and annoyance.

He reaches behind him slowly, pulls the gun out from behind his waistband, places it into the waiting palm. "As for the vial, gentlemen, I'm afraid you're a bit too late. I no longer have it in my possession, and its contents have already been dispensed," he states calmly, allowing himself a small smile of satisfaction at the matching expressions of near-apoplectic fury on their flushed faces.

They exchange glances, and whatever decision they arrive at during their silent exchange, it does not bode well for Steve, he knows.

"You're gonna have to come with us, Commander," the tall one says, as he turns back to Steve, raising his gun higher for good measure.

Steve ignores him for the moment, shifts his attention to the wide-eyed woman beside him. "Any change?" he asks hopefully, nodding in the direction of Danny's bed.

Doctor Mahoe swallows nervously as she tears her gaze away from the three armed men and walks back over to her patient's side, and Steve watches with bated breath, as she scans the equipment before her, noting the numbers on the displays.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, making him flinch. "Quit stalling, Commander!" The warning is unequivocal, as is the press of the weapon against his back.

"Wait," he pleads, all pretense at cockiness gone. "I just–"

The weapon jabs harder into his back, the forward movement causing him to shift in place, putting more weight onto his injured foot. The flare of pain is immediate as it is unexpected, the intensity of it nearly taking his breath away.

"Gentlemen, please, this man is injured. He needs medical help."

The doctor's voice is muffled by the loud ringing in his ears, her face swimming before him momentarily before shifting back into focus. But her words on his behalf are not what he needs right now. _**He**_ doesn't matter. Never did. The only one that matters now is...

"Danny...?" he questions in a gasping rasp, pleading with all the gods that be for her answer to be a positive one.

She looks toward him then and Steve feels his heart flutter with renewed hope at the soft smile of reassurance that graces her features. "His vitals are improving," she says, "I can't believe it, but I think he's actually on the mend."

Steve closes his eyes momentarily, sags slightly in his captor's grip. "Thank god," he murmurs, "thank GOD!" There's wetness tracking its way down his cheeks, but for the first time during these harrowing lifetime-long hours his tears are those of genuine, soul-deep relief.

There's a rough tug on his shoulder, a crude reminder that his debts are now due, and he doesn't resist, lets himself be pulled backwards through the open door.

"Where're you taking this man?" The diminutive doctor steps toward them, her smooth features creased with concern. "He's injured," she points out again, pleading for reason. "He needs to stay in the hospital."

A gun shifts threateningly toward her, stopping her in her tracks, the grip on Steve's shoulder tightening in warning.

"It's alright, Doc, it's all good," he assures her hurriedly, forcing his lips into a shaky semblance of a smile. "You just... you take care of him now, okay?" He shifts his gaze back toward the bed, drinks in the sight of his partner – a final memory, a silent farewell.

"Tell him... tell him I kept my promise. The only way I knew how."

He can see that she wants to say something, can see the questions in her eyes, but his time is well and truly up, the guards dragging him forcefully out into the hallway. And the door slams shut before him, cutting him off from his brother. For good.

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><p><em>TBC <em>

_Okay, well... I'm afraid to ask. Thoughts?_


	28. Dum Spiro Spero - Hope Dies Last Part 2

**A/N My apologies for the late posting. RL caught up with me and I fell behind a bit with my writing. Thank you, everyone, for your patience with this story! And for your amazing response! Your reviews are always the highlight of my day :) Thank you, guys!**

**Please, keep in mind that I am not an expert on and and all things military, spy, etc., nor do I play one on TV. I'm sure I got at least something wrong. I'm sure there are lots of things here that are beyond the realm of the credible. But, hey, it's fiction. Suspension of disbelief is a requirement of sorts :)**

**So, without further ado... I hope you enjoy this conclusion. As always, I'm very much looking forward to your thoughts.**

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><p><strong>Dum Spiro Spero - Hope Dies Last. Part II<strong>

"What's this?" Danny asks, as the Governor pushes a stack of manila folders toward him.

"Some candidates I'd like you to look at, Detective," Denning states calmly, leaning back in his chair. "Good men, with lots of field experience–"

"No!" Danny shoots out of his chair, a flush of anger making his cheeks burn. "We've had this discussion already, Governor, with all due respect, and–"

"Sit down, Detective," the Governor's voice is hard, brooking no argument, and Danny fumes but complies, lowering himself stiffly back into the chair. "I know we have talked about this before, and I have respected your team's wishes, but this has gone on long enough."

Danny grits his teeth, digs deep within him for some modicum of calm. "We just need a bit more time, Sir."

"It's been six months, Detective," comes the implacable response, and Danny can't help but flinch at the cruel reminder.

Denning purses his lips together, exhales loudly through his nose. "Look, Detective," he begins, his voice softer now, sympathetic – the kind of pitying sympathy that makes Danny want to throttle the guy, "I understand how you feel. I do. But 5-0 is _**my**_ task force, and I need it to function to its full capacity, which it hasn't been doing ever since Commander McGarrett's... disappearance." His eyes narrow assessingly when Danny cringes at his choice of words, and he leans forward on his elbows, piercing Danny with a hard, demanding gaze. "Take these files with you, Detective. Look them over. I'm gonna be expecting a decision from you by the end of the week."

Denning stands up, conversation over, and Danny has no choice but to pick up the folders and leave, feeling like he's just been handed a shovel to start dumping dirt on his best friend's coffin.

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The deafening boom of the explosion sweeps over him, dampening all other sounds – the angry bursts of gunfire, the rapacious roar of flames, the screams of the wounded and the dying, his own... For a long moment he's aware of nothing save for the nauseating stench of charred flesh and burning metal and the scorching, suffocating heat. Everywhere. In the air around him, on his skin, in his lungs. He gasps desperately for air, pulls in another lungful of thick, vaporous lava that seems to have swathed him. And he gags, and coughs, and howls at the furious, nerve-searing pain that slices through him as a result, and...

...The next time he surfaces, he's being jostled violently, carried along in an unforgiving, rocking motion that reignites the agony raging inside him. He can't move, he finds, his limbs heavy and strangely detached, useless. Can't escape the punishing movement. Can't even call out, roar his misery, beg for it to stop – his throat feels like he's been sucking on ash and even the slightest sound gets trapped in the scorched, swollen aftermath.

He's deposited roughly, hard surface underneath him. Hands are pulling at him, swift, efficient, prodding.

"This boy has enough shrapnel in him to put together a brand new RPG," a voice sounds above him, muffled by the ever-present, residual din from that explosion from minutes (hours?... days?...) ago.

The prodding gets rougher still, and he feels something sharp dig probingly into his gut and tug and pull and... _oh God_... The pain is such that his awareness cuts out momentarily, lost in a red haze that smothers it. His throat constricts with a barely audible wheeze of pain that manages to scrape its way out.

The hands prodding him still in shocked surprise. An instant later the voice from earlier snaps angrily,

"Can any of you, numbskulls, tell me why this man is still writhing in pain instead of being knocked out into the next millennium?"

"I'm sorry, sir," comes a hesitant response. "He didn't appear to be conscious when we brought him out. We thought–"

"Never mind!" the first speaker growls. "Get me the damn morphine, corpsman!"

"Aye, sir!"

He hears a muffled commotion around him, an "it's gonna be alright now, son" whispered reassuringly above his ear, feels a tiny pinprick in the crook of his arm that barely registers somewhere on the far fringes of his pain-engulfed consciousness.

Scarcely a second later, he feels cool liquid rush through his veins, soothing the fire within, and he nearly mewls in breathless relief.

"Bless you," he has time to think, as the blissful, pain-free darkness swallows him whole.

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He slams the folder shut, pushes it away in disgust.

"New case?"

He looks up sharply, meets Chin's inquisitive gaze. The older man looks calm, as collected as ever, but Danny knows him well enough to note the cracks in his Zen-like exterior. Hell, they all have those cracks now, each one of them walking around with damaged, broken façades, hemorrhaging worry and gut-churning fear for their missing friend.

"Denning," he says, as if the name itself explains it all. "He wants the task force to be back to its 'full capacity'." His hands swing sharply upward in an exaggerated show of air quotes, emphasizing the snapped out words.

Chin quirks an eyebrow at that. "So these are..."

"Replacement candidates, yes," Danny growls, fighting the urge to rip the offending papers to shreds. "He thinks enough time has passed and we need to move on."

"And what do you think?" Chin steps further into the room, perches himself on the edge of Danny's desk.

The question is loaded, Danny knows. It's crammed with "how do you feel about it?", "where does this leave us?", "what do we do?". Danny isn't sure if he can answer any of that.

When he first woke up back there at the hospital, when he got over the joyful shock of being alive and noticed the conspicuous absence of his partner in the swirl of faces welcoming him back to the world of the living, when he learned the reason behind that absence, behind his miraculous recovery... he lost it. It wasn't pretty. It was loud, and raucous, and desperately violent, and hopelessly, pathetically tearful. But, in the end, none of it mattered, because Steve was gone. Not a trace of him anywhere, except the blood-smeared vial he left behind. The vial that had saved Danny's life. The vial that had most likely condemned his brother to death.

The bottom dropped out of his world that day and he hasn't been able to pick up the pitiful, scattered pieces of his soul since.

He sighs, sags wearily against the back of his chair. "There's been no word, Chin," he whispers, feeling drained and wrung out like an old floor rag, "no word. It's been months. I can't get a hold of Joe. Doris is a dead-end. Nobody knows anything. I–" He shakes his head, the familiar sting of bitter, helpless tears constricting his throat. "I thought I was dying, you know," he murmurs, his voice strained almost to the point of breaking. "It sucked, it wasn't fair, but I made my peace. And he..." Danny squeezes his eyes shut, the words Dr. Mahoe told him – the words Steve had asked her to relay to him – playing cruelly in his mind: _"...I kept my promise. The only way I knew how..." _But at what cost? Dear God, at what cost?

"He promised me he would take care of my daughter," he whispers dazedly and looks back up at Chin as if Chin holds all the answers to the tumult raging within his soul. "He promised and then he went and did this?" He flops his hand ineffectually in the air, lets it drop limply back into his lap. "And now I'm being asked to move on? How am I supposed to do that, huh, Chin?" he wonders brokenly. "How?"

Chin regards him silently for a few beats, meeting the tearful despair of his gaze with an uncharacteristically anguished look of his own. "You're not," he says finally, his voice thin, hollow. "But you do need to forgive him, Danny, and yourself." He raises his hand at Danny's sharp exclamation of protest, places it soothingly on Danny's forearm. "You've been angry all this time. Angry and intense, raging against everything and everyone... You need to let this go. Steve did the right thing, you know that. Deep inside, you know that."

"Because Grace is best taken care of by her father," Danny huffs out, angry and bitter. Because that was the bastard's logic, wasn't it. That's what that self-sacrificing son of a bitch was thinking when he gave him that promise. And Danny's only really angry at himself because, as well as he knows Steve, he somehow hadn't anticipated the lengths his crazy partner would go to to keep his family safe. And now Steve isn't even here for him to yell at for being so reckless, so unsparing with his own life. And he is dreading having to face the fact that he may never get to yell at his partner anymore; that Steve is gone and he will never even learn what happened to him, never get a chance to say goodbye. And it's the utter, coal-black despair of that realization that twists into vicious, powerless anger within his ravaged, tormented soul. And ain't that a bitch...

Chin's hand on his arm tightens ever so slightly, the man's lips parting as he moves to speak. A sudden, persistent buzz of Danny's phone robs him of that chance. The familiar, weary voice that greets Danny when he picks it up, is like a sharp metal axis that pierces his dark, guilt and grief ridden world, grinds it to a halt and spins it violently in the other direction.

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"It's over."

He frowns, blinks dazedly up at the slightly flabby, sun-beaten face of the man standing beside his bed. _Agent... Groveson?_

"Over?" he echoes numbly, his frown deepening as the man's freshly shaven cheeks stretch out into a slightly condescending smile.

"Your debt is considered to have been paid in full," the agent clarifies with a nod. "You're a free man, Сommander. Congratulations."

The guy, _Groveson_, steps away from the bed, moves to leave, and Steve's painkiller-numbed brain is finally starting to catch up. Laboriously, he pulls himself up into a semi-sitting position, grinding his teeth against a twin wave of pain and dizziness that washes over him with the rapacity of a white squall, intent on dragging him under.

"Wait, Agent Groveson... please...," he wheezes, clutching the sides of the bed in a vain attempt to keep the room from spinning. "Detective Williams... nobody would tell me... did he... is he alright?"

Groveson halts in his step, hesitates, running his hand through his well-coiffed salt-and-pepper hair. "I'm sorry," he says finally, giving him a look seems vaguely apologetic, "but, unfortunately, I don't have that kind of information."

With that he walks out, and Steve collapses back onto his pillow, too dizzy, too drained for his trembling arms to hold him up any longer. Panting heavily, he slams his eyes shut in despair as dark tendrils of doubt slither their way once more into his consciousness, dredging up the morbid, heart-stopping fear that has plagued him ever since he left Danny's side that day. That maybe it was all for nothing. That the antidote wasn't effective or timely enough. That Danny still died and he, Steve, wasn't even there to comfort Grace. That he broke the last promise he ever made to his best friend.

He's had these thoughts before in the months he's been away, but he had the mission to focus on and he was able to push them aside, to bury them for a while. Now that the mission is over, now that his mind is free, they dug their way back to the surface, renewing their assault with a vengeance. And this time he's helpless against them, too weak, too exhausted to fight them. So he surrenders to their cruel, macabre imagery, twists awkwardly onto his less injured side, buries his face in the pillow and moans in pain both physical and internal, as hot, gut-wrenching tears wrack and ravage his battle-scarred frame.

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"What's with the cloak and dagger shit, Joe?" he snaps, trying to cover up the involuntary flinch as the older man materialized in the middle of the dark alleyway beside him, seemingly out of thin air.

Joe doesn't answer right away, takes a moment to carefully scan the space behind Danny, as if openly questioning Danny's solemn promise to come alone. Danny bristles at that, wants to remind the former SEAL in no uncertain terms that if anyone's trustworthiness deserves to be questioned here, the bald-headed lying bastard standing before him should start by looking in the goddamn mirror. But Joe's already grabbing the sleeve of his shirt, pulling him along into the shadows from whence he had appeared.

"I apologize for the secrecy, Danny," he says when he's apparently satisfied that they are in no danger of acquiring an additional audience. "I knew you would have questions, legitimate questions, to be sure, but... most of the stuff I have to tell you is still highly classified, and I wouldn't have been able to give you any of the answers over the phone."

Danny raises his hand, shakes his head wearily. His life for the past six months has been one fucked up emotional rollercoaster. He can't deal with this shit anymore, he's had enough.

"Can you just... Just tell me if he's alive, Joe."

Joe squints uncomfortably, works his jaw. "As far as I know," he hedges finally.

"As far as you–" Danny sputters, his hands doing the talking. "What the hell does that–?"

"I haven't been allowed to see him, Danny," White interrupts, his face – an unreadable mask. "Not yet."

It doesn't make sense. _**None**_ of this makes sense. And Danny has to fight the urge to scream out his frustration, has to strain to keep his voice low and steady. "Where is he?"

"Landstuhl."

"Landstuhl..." He knows what that means. He knows what that fucking means. And his mind fills instantly with images of soldiers, gravely wounded, crippled, dead. "How did he... what..." He can't talk, his heart beating out of his chest as he pictures Steve's face on one of those bed-ridden, mutilated bodies he's seen in the news. "How, Joe?"

Joe chews his lip, reluctant. "The CIA got involved," he offers, cringing when Danny tenses instantly at the name, his hands curling reflexively into fists. "That drug Steve stole, it pissed off some pretty powerful people and... well, you know Steve's track record with the CIA wasn't that great to begin with..."

Oh, Danny knows. All too well. Steve's made enough enemies with the Company to have guys like Alexander chomping at the bit to sink their claws into him. Him stealing that drug for Danny may have just given them the opportunity to do so.

"They were calling for blood, Danny. There was nothing I could do." Joe's words are quiet, non-judgmental, but to Danny they're sharp as daggers, each one reminding him that this whole thing was his own goddamn fault. "Steve was given a choice – jail-time with dishonorable conduct discharge or a CIA-sanctioned mission."

"He picked the mission." It's not a question. Danny isn't even looking at Joe for confirmation.

Joe nods anyway. "There was an Al-Quaeda operative in Afghanistan that our government's been itching to get their hands on for years. Dangerous enough and high enough up the food chain that his death would have made quite a dent in their operation there and abroad. The guy knew it, too – nobody's been able to locate him for months, our intelligence hasn't even come close." Joe's mouth twitches – a ripple of displeasure in a night-shadowed sea of forced calm. "Steve was given a small team to track him down, confirm and take him out. They managed to do that, but the mission went a bit sideways, from what I understand."

_"Of course," _he thinks. _"When does it ever __not__, when McGarrett's involved?" _He closes his eyes, feeling suddenly lightheaded. "H-how bad?"

Joe shakes his head, brows taut with concern. "I don't have all the details, but... it was pretty bad from what I hear," he finishes off with a sigh.

Danny leans against the nearby wall, his legs doing a perfect imitation of jell-o. He's gonna kill Steve. He's sure of it. Let him just get his hands on the bastard. He's gonna hug the stuffing out of him and then he's gonna fucking kill him.

"They tell me he's getting better," Joe hurries to interject, sounding just a tad alarmed. And Danny wonders absently how bad he must look for someone as bloody cold-hearted as Joe to actually feel concern. "And the CIA is backing off. A certain someone..."

He pauses for emphasis, his gaze boring into Danny's – and Danny gets it, okay? He gets who the "certain someone" is, and his skin feels that much tighter with the realization. He shoves the creepy feeling aside, forces himself to focus on Joe's words.

"A certain someone has pulled some major strings on his behalf. Managed to get the powers that be off Steve's back. Convinced them that they got a good trade-off – a billion dollar drug for a billion dollar kill, and they agreed to leave him alone."

Danny swallows, hard. "I want to see him."

Joe squints at him again. "He's still in Germany, Danny. Military hospital."

Danny stands up straight, nods, his jaw set in determination. "I'm sure you can help me get in."

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"Recovery," a nurse at the front desk tells them, "room 212. Oh, but you need–"

Danny doesn't wait for her to finish, leaves it to Joe to handle the bureaucratic part. He's waited long enough.

He bounds up the stairs, too anxious, too overwrought to wait for the elevator. He's at the door to Steve's room moments later. He takes a deep, steadying breath, jerks it open, steps inside and freezes, rooted to the spot. The room is empty, as is the bed, covers thrown haphazardly to the side. There's no one here.

He stumbles backwards out into the hallway, letting the door hiss shut before him as he stares numbly into nothingness. They lied, is all he can think. Steve's dead or they've taken him back into their custody never to be heard from again. They lied...

He's dared to hope, that was his mistake. Since that damn phone call, since that clandestine meeting in some back alley in an abandoned warehouse district, he's dared to hope. For the first time in months. He has found purpose, he had a goal, a plan that would put an end to months of bleak, worry-wrought days filled with futile, desperate attempts to find at least some trace of his friend, to drunkenly hollow, lonely evenings, to sweat-soaked, nightmare-plagued dreams.

It all comes crashing down around him now. Hard. And he feels lost. Utterly, completely. Spinning in place like a helicopter with a broken tail rotor. He doesn't know where to go, what to do, what to think. It's over. This was his last chance to find his friend. His _**only**_ chance. And he was too late.

"Danny!" Joe places his hand on Danny's shoulder, and Danny flinches at the unexpectedness of the touch. He hasn't heard the older man come up to this floor, hasn't heard him approach. Joe meets his anguished, questioning gaze calmly, points his head at something beyond Danny. "Look."

Danny turns to follow Joe's direction and feels his heart stop for the second time in so many minutes. There's a hospital-gown-clothed figure hobbling slowly down the corridor in their direction. One arm is casted, held protectively in a sling, the other has a white-knuckled, trembling grip on the IV pole the man is leaning on heavily for each laborious step. There's a thick swath of white bandage that peeks from under the frayed collar of the gown, wrapping around one shoulder and descending somewhere into the vicinity of the man's chest. The ashen gray, sweat-dampened face is turned downwards, the man's focus solely on putting one foot in front of the other.

"Steve..."

The name slips out unbidden, a whisper of shock and disbelief, of relief and worry. Because Steve looks so... so ill, so weak. But he's here. He's alive. He's... he's looking up now, having somehow heard the strangled, breathless call of his name. Their eyes meet, and Danny's stunned to see the same shocked disbelief, the same timorous hope reflected back at him in Steve's pained, achingly familiar blues.

The frozen silence stretches impossibly between them, each man ensnared completely by the other's gaze, unable and unwilling to look away, afraid that if they do, the welcome illusion before them will fade away into the stuff of their dreams.

Then Steve's gaze loses focus momentarily, his eyelids dipping almost imperceptibly, and he sways drunkenly in place, the IV pole rattling as he desperately tries to keep himself upright. Danny lunges forward, the spell broken, and catches his partner, as the latter starts to careen slowly and inexorably downward.

Steve sags into him, limp and heavy and trembling, and Danny grunts under the added weight but doesn't give an inch. Only tightens his hold on his brother, his eyes filling with tears long kept at bay, as he feels the fingers of Steve's non-casted arm clutch desperately at the fabric of his shirt.

"Thank God," he hears Steve whisper hotly above his ear. "Thank God! They wouldn't tell me anything... I didn' t know if you... if it worked... I thought..." He feels Steve shudder against him, feels the scratch of the man's stubble as he drops his head down, burying his face in Danny's shoulder. "I thought I'd never see you again."

The words are barely audible, mumbled against Danny's shirt, but Danny hears them just fine and gasps wetly at that haunting echo of his own heart-stopping fears. There are so many words bubbling up to the surface, bursting to break free. So many emotions, so many things he wants to express. To scream at him, to rage, to cry. To tell him how much he hates him for putting him through these months of hell, for being so incredibly stupid to think that his life can always so easily be forfeit for the sake of others, that he is somehow less important than the rest of them. To tell him how deeply he loves him, how desperately he needs him, how grateful he is for what he's done.

He gulps, swallows convulsively, and settles for the one thing that's most important.

"I'm here, now, babe," he forces out hoarsely, his voice breaking as he raises one hand to cup the back of Steve head – tenderly, lovingly, desperately. "I'm here. I'm taking you home."

* * *

><p><em>I've gone over and over the ending, must have been a thousand times. I was gonna write Danny ranting at Steve, but then I felt like he would have too emotionally drained by that point to jump into one, and Steve was too weak and tired to be on the receiving end of it. So this felt like the right thing for Danny to say. I hope I haven't disappointed those of you who were expecting the loud ranting scene. :) <em>


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N ::groans:: Shoot me now... I knew this was gonna happen, I just knew it. As soon as I saw the preview with that basement scene. I was hoping the muse would leave it alone, hoping for a bit of a break from this series, but, no... ::slaps her forehead in despair::**

**Spoiler alert (again, if you're reading this collection, you should know better ;-)) Okay, so I did like the episode. Really. Overall. I mean, I would have preferred Steve and Danny in that basement instead of Steve and Grover (not too fond of that partnership), but I understand the need for Danny to have been elsewhere at that point in time. But there's always room for more bromance and whump and angst, isn't there? ;-)**

**So, the scene that started all this is the one where Danny and Grace are walking through that creepy foggy field with that creepy scarecrow and the creepy house in the distance. There was a moment I thought for sure that this was the same house that Steve and Grover were heading to. And then I thought, well, what if it was? What if, instead of finding some horrible musician/tow truck driver, Danny and Grace stumbled onto Mr. Oakman's ghoulish laboratory? And what if those cuts and bruises on Steve's face were not the only "mementos" of his fight with a deranged serial killer (I mean, the way the guy was stabbing at him.. sheesh!)**

**Anyway, this is where my muse went. A bit rushed and sadly unbetaed, so any and all mistakes are, well, mine and unintentional. Hope you enjoy it anyway. And drop me a note if you do. You know I always appreciate them :)**

* * *

><p>The house is large, imposing, its dark windows gaping silently back at them through the eerie swirls of ever-thickening fog. There's light coming from one of the basement windows, however, flickering intermittently as though from a bad switch. She thinks she hears sounds coming from there, too – the groaning of metal, the grinding of saw. It makes her feel even more terrified than she was only moments ago.<p>

"I don't wanna stop here, Danno," she whispers plaintively, hoping he isn't as upset with her anymore, that he would listen, oblige. "Please, can we just go?"

Her father's hand tightens reassuringly around her palm, and she raises her head to find him smiling softly down at her. It's almost a forgiveness, and her heart sings in response. "We won't stay long," he tells her, pressing the doorbell. "Let's just ask them if they have a phone so we can call a tow truck. Alright?"

She nods and waits with bated breath as heavy footsteps behind the door announce the arrival of the owner.

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"Come on, Lou, get me the damn light in here," he hisses through clenched teeth as he continues to sweep the dark corners with the beam of his flashlight. The creepy feeling of being watched, the knowledge that their perp is somewhere in here amidst a collection of bloody torture tools and embalmed body parts has him on edge. Maybe he shouldn't have announced himself before going down into the basement, he thinks. Should have ignored the procedure, seeing how they are dealing with a deranged serial killer and all. Now the crazy son of a bitch knows he's down here and Steve's sure the creep is hiding somewhere in the shadows, waiting to strike.

The light comes on suddenly with a spookily unsteady fizz of old wiring, and Steve gasps in unrestrained horror at the scene that is illuminated before him. There's a mutilated corpse strung high on a makeshift platform – a sickening jigsaw puzzle of female body parts sewn together to duplicate the woman of a madman's dreams. The bride of Frankenstein.

But it's the floor Steve's gaze is quickly drawn to. To the limp form of his partner, lying face down in an ever widening pool of blood that spreads outward from around his hopelessly matted blond locks. To the disheveled, dirt-smudged figure huddled miserably beside him, her small hands and feet wrapped crudely with a length of rope, her large, terrified eyes staring pleadingly back at him, as tears run down her cheeks, washing away the remnants of makeup, slipping haltingly over a piece of duct tape that's slapped roughly across her mouth.

He gapes at them open-mouthed, his mind refusing to process any of this as real. It can't be. Why would it? Danny shouldn't even be here. He was on the North Shore. The party. Grace.

"Grace...," he whispers dazedly, making a move toward them, but in that instant her eyes widen suddenly at something behind him, her expression changing into one of alarm, and Steve jerks to the side on pure instinct, and feels something sharp slice its way across his left bicep.

He bites back a hiss of pain, whirls sharply, knocking his weight into his attacker. The man meets him with a small but solid wall of craze-fueled muscles and they tumble to the floor in a furious tangle of limbs, Steve's gun clattering uselessly out of reach. The loss of his weapon is serious, for sure, but Steve doesn't have time to dwell on it, as the deranged baggage handler stabs furiously at him with a wickedly wide chef's knife and he has to use both hands to keep the blood-spattered blade away from his face.

The fight seems to go on too long for Oakman's liking and he lets out a frustrated howl, even as the knife's downward jabs become faster and more frantic, the metal handle slamming repeatedly into Steve's face from the force of the deflected blows.

"McGarrett! You alright down there?"

Lou's call of his name startles both men out of their intense concentration, the blade hand slipping a fraction as it meets Steve's protectively raised arm. Steve cries out as pain laces up his forearm, blood dripping freely from the deep, burning cut. It is but a moment of distraction, and he's already got both arms up before him to fend off his attacker, but Oakman uses that tiny moment to press his advantage. The smaller man shifts downward, quick as a slithering snake, and Steve gasps in pain and shock, as the razor-sharp steel plunges deep into his stomach just below the safety of his vest line.

Oakman pushes viciously down on the blade, and Steve wheezes breathlessly, his body folding in on itself against the savage abuse. A callous hand shoves him crudely back down, the back of his head smacking soundly against the concrete, while the other jerks the knife out in a quick, blood-squirting move. His body twitches weakly in response, dangerous numbness creeping in. He can't give up, he thinks. Danny and Grace, they're in danger. He refuses to allow himself the thought that Danny might already be dead. No, he's alive, just hurt. And he needs help. They both do. He can't abandon them now, can't leave them alone with this maniac.

He grits his teeth, blinking away the nausea-tinged blackness. Forces himself to focus just in time to see Oakman pull back for another attack. He raises his weak, trembling arms, grips the knife hand, twists and pushes up, despair fueling his dwindling strength. Oakman jerks convulsively above him, his mouth opening with an odd, gurgling sound, and Steve turns his head sluggishly to the side as blood drips down at him from the blade that's buried hilt-deep in the man's neck. He watches dully as Oakman's eyes grow wide with fear, perhaps for the first time in his demented life, before the crazy light in them dims and the man topples forward, landing heavily on top of Steve. Dead.

Steve closes his eyes, taking a moment to steady his breathing, to gulp down the nausea reignited by Oakman's added weight jostling his wound. He needs to move, he tells himself. He needs to make sure that Danny's alright. Needs to get Grace free. Lou... He needs to call Lou. He tries, wheezes the words out as best he can, but his throat refuses to force out anything beyond a strangled whisper and he gnashes his teeth in frustration, his only remaining recourse – to wriggle himself free of the dead weight pinning him down.

"McGarrett? You need help there?" Lou's voice sounds much closer all of a sudden, and he turns his head to find his teammate standing on the bottom of the stairs, frowning worriedly down at him.

_Thank God, _he thinks, his mind going momentarily numb with relief. Lou's here. Lou's gonna take care of it. Take care of– "Danny," he forces out as loud as he can. "Danny... o-over there ... and Grace... he's hurt... Check..."

Lou's eyes widen comically at that. "Williams is here? What–" But then he's already running off in the direction Steve pointed to and Steve can hear the blessed sound of a phone being dialed and the urgent words "Officer needs assistance" floating toward him across the damp basement space.

He needs to go there himself, too, though. He needs to see for himself if Danny's alright, needs to know. Slowly, painfully he works himself free of Oakman's weight, pushes himself laboriously up on his feet. The basement sways and dips around him, and he is forced to grab hold of the closest support, his other hand clamping tightly around his blood-soaked midsection. He takes a few moments to steady himself, for the shaking in his legs to subside to a more manageable level. Then his gaze narrows in fierce determination and he pushes away from the support and begins to shuffle forward, zeroing in on Lou's hunched back that swims in and out of his vision.

He blinks and there's Grace, free now, her arms wrapped with desperate urgency around Lou's neck. And Lou's holding her gently, patting her on the back, murmuring something reassuring in her ear as she sobs loudly against him.

He blinks again and Lou's turned to face him now, his lips moving. Steve tries his best to concentrate on the words, makes out halted, garbled scraps: "Danny's unconscious... head wound... ambulance on the way..."

Danny's alive then, he thinks, his knees going weak with relief. He takes another lurching step forward, but his body has already fought too much, gone well past its reserves. And now that his goal has been achieved, now that he knows that Danny and Grace are safe, he finds that he has nothing left to give. He shuts down, swiftly, abruptly, barely registering the look of alarm on Lou's blurred out face before his world fizzes out to naught.

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There's a pleasant numbness that fills his entire being, the kind that comes from anesthesia; soft sheets underneath him, the smell of antiseptic in the air. He soaks it in, lets the rest of his senses slowly come back online.

He becomes aware of a hand wrapped gently around his own. Familiar, dear. _Danny. _

He smiles softly, twisting his hand to squeeze back. The response is instantaneous. He hears a scrape of a chair across the floor, feels another hand land softly on his shoulder. "Steve?"

He peels his eyes open, blinks sluggishly as the pale face leaning above him comes into focus.

"Hey..."

His throat feels like sandpaper that's been crumpled up and run over a pile of glass shards. Intubation, he guesses. Must have been bad.

Something cold presses against his lips, and he parts them greedily, lets the smooth chips of ice soothe the painful roughness of his throat.

"What... happen'd?"

Danny frowns worriedly at him, sets down the cup of ice chips. "You don't remember?"

He shakes his head slightly. "Not me...," he huffs out, "you... Grace... you okay?"

"Fine." Danny's face is dark, belying the assurance of his words, and Steve tightens his grip in worry as memories of Danny's bloodied form spring up before him. "We're okay, Steve, really," Danny hurries to reassure him, reading his mind like he always does. "I mean, you know, I got a hairline fracture and a mother of all headaches for my troubles and Grace still wakes up screaming every night, and I'll probably be getting the bill for the therapy sessions Rachel's been dragging her to. But we're okay, we're alive... thanks to your crazy ass."

Steve grins slightly at the moniker, worry still lingering at the edge of his consciousness. Because... skull fracture? Nightmares? That is not okay. That is far from okay. And how did... "I thought you were... North Shore... how...?"

"It's all your fault, really," Danny says with a shrug, and Steve blinks at him in confusion.

"My f-fault? How?"

"Because I tried to act like you."

Danny's explanation makes even less sense and Steve squints miserably up at him, feeling completely and utterly lost. Danny takes pity on him.

"I crashed the Camaro," he says with a huff of incredulous self-mocking laughter. "I crashed it because I was driving like you – too busy scolding my wayward daughter to pay attention to the road. And then when Grace and I were forced to walk across the ass-end of nowhere to search for help because none of our cell phones were in range and we passed this really creepy house, and every one of my instincts was screaming at me to get as far the hell away from it as possible, I decided to listen to my inner Steve and ignore the general Texas Chainsaw Massacre vibe."

"You went... in the house."

"I went in the house," Danny confirms, scowling at Steve's incredulously raised eyebrow. "You always make fun of me for getting spooked too easily, so I figured I can do this, right?" He chuffs out a bitter laugh, shakes his head. "I try to be brave and what do I get? A goddamn shovel to the back of my head."

Steve bites his lip, thinking back to the puddle of blood around his brother's head, to Grace's wide-open, tear-filled eyes staring up at him from the grime-covered floor. "The suspect's house," he murmurs dazedly, "what are the odds..."

"It only figures," Danny huffs out good-naturedly. "The one time I decide to listen to your annoying little voice in my head, I end up getting brained by a crazed serial killer." He grows serious all of a sudden, skewers Steve with a stare that feels a bit too intense for comfort. "You almost bled out there in that basement, Steve," he says, his voice hoarse. "Why the hell didn't you tell Lou that you'd been stabbed?"

Steve works his jaw, suddenly uncomfortable, drops his gaze to settle somewhere between the two top buttons of Danny's shirt. "I needed him to get to you...," he explains quietly, because shouldn't that be obvious? "I didn't know if you were... if you were okay. I needed to know..."

Danny doesn't say anything for a long time, his presence oppressive, a sizzle of tension sparking like an electric shockwave between them. Steve dares to look up, forces himself not to cringe at the depth of emotion he sees in his brother's eyes.

"You're a stupid, stupid man, McGarrett," Danny declares hotly, his forehead scrunched up as if in pain. "Utterly, unbelievably stupid!"

Steve huffs absently, sinks deeper into his pillow. He doesn't want to argue about this, he knows he did the right thing. Plus he's tired. Really, really tired. His body still too sapped, too weak to stay awake this long. He grins sleepily up at his friend, his eyes drooping to half-mast.

"Yeah," he agrees in a breathless murmur, his words beginning to slur from sheer, bone-deep exhaustion. "But you love me anyway..."

Danny shifts forward, his hand settling gently on his forehead, and Steve closes his eyes, reveling in the reassuring warmth. He feels Danny's calloused fingers slide down to rest on the side of his face, feels the heat of Danny's breath on his cheek.

"Yeah, babe," Danny says, his voice choked with the force of emotion he pours into it, "I do." And Steve smiles, content, letting the healing waters of sleep close over him completely.


	30. Leverage Part I

**A/N So I'm continuing to play around with this universe, trying new things. This time the muse wanted to do something a little bit different. Still got the usual ingredients (Steve whumpage, angst, comfort), but with a more... vulnerable Steve, I guess. For some reason the show's writers have been showing him as less and less capable in hand-to-hand combat. There was that episode with "Valentine" Mercer, when Steve needed help fighting one(!) hired gun. Then the episode with the pirates, where a crazy chick with a shovel nearly took him out. Then being overpowered by "Dr. Frankenstein". Having trouble getting the upper hand with that fugitive in the latest episode. Well, anyway, maybe this is what brought this on, maybe not. Whatever the case, I wanted to try out writing something where Steve is more vulnerable than usual (for a good reason, of course) and depends on others to ... well, rescue him. **

**It's another two-parter, simply because it was getting a bit too long to be a one-shot (and because I do love cliffies and suspense ;-))**

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><p><strong>Leverage. Part I <strong>

"Tell us who your partner is, Matsuno. Maybe we'll talk to the D.A. about giving you some outdoor time during your stay at Halawa."

Kohaku Matsuno smiles at them from the chair, his gaze cold as ice. "I'm afraid you are mistaken, Detective," he says, his voice sickly confident. "I have no plans to visit your lovely prison facilities any time soon. In fact, I'm pretty sure you'll be releasing me in the very near future."

Danny matches his grin tooth for tooth. "Funny," he says, fingers curling into fists at his sides as he fights for control. "You're a funny guy. Or simply batshit insane."

"What my friend here means," Lou cuts in, towering angrily over Matsuno's seated form, "is that for someone who shot four police officers and blew up a goddamn warehouse with the intent of killing more officers you lured there, you must be down to your very last cracked marble if you think that anyone with a badge would even consider letting you go. You're a cop killer, Matsuno. The only place you're going is the lockup, and you'll be lucky if you survive long enough to make it there in one piece."

Matsuno's smile grows wider still, if that is even possible, and he shifts his gaze calmly to Danny, ignoring the bigger man. "I've been following your team, Detective. You're very protective of one another, aren't you. And you, Detective, are especially protective of your partner, are you not?" There's a spark of unkind amusement in the dark eyes, the smile morphing momentarily into a sadistic sneer. "I hear he was injured in that last explosion. What a terrible, terrible thing! Must have hit you pretty hard," he tsks-tsks in mock sympathy.

Danny doesn't realize he moved until he feels his fist throb and sees Matsuno rock back violently from a nose-busting punch.

"Danny, hey, hey! Easy, man!" Lou's got his arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him back. "Take it easy."

But Danny can't take it easy is the thing. He can't take it easy, because he can still feel the heat of that explosion, can still hear Steve's desperate scream at them to get the hell back, can still see the body of his partner being tossed through the air like a floppy rag doll, landing with a sickening crack on top of a police cruiser. He doesn't think he'll ever forget it, doesn't think he'll ever get that image out of his mind. Steve had gotten off lucky that day – a few deep cuts and bruises, four broken ribs, a broken arm, and a grade 3 concussion with a hairline skull fracture to boot... It could've been much worse, though. It had been for two other officers, who weren't quite so lucky. And Danny doesn't even want to think about what would have happened to him if Steve had been among the unlucky ones.

"How _**is**_ the Commander doing these days?" There is no mistaking the sadistic glee that colors the man's now decidedly nasal voice. Blood is gushing freely out of Matsuno's nose, his sneeringly bared teeth coated red, making him look like a freshly sated vampire. "You haven't left him all alone, have you?" he gasps in mock horror, the dark eyes watching Danny with a predatory glint. "Dangerous to leave an injured man at home all by himself," he chides with the same affected concern. "Never know if something _**bad**_ might happen..."

Danny's eyes grow wide at the unmistakable threat, words of denial hot on his tongue. Because the bastard is bluffing, trying to get a rise out of him. Because Steve is fine. Because they spoke only an hour ago, after the takedown.

Steve had stayed home, yes. Danny had forced him to. Because, as much as the man was itching to be there for the raid, and as much as he argued that he could still shoot perfectly with his left arm, the guy's headache was still such that he couldn't walk more than two paces in a straight line before having to grab for the nearest wall lest he should swoon dive onto the floor. So Steve stayed, grudgingly, and Danny promised that he would call him as soon as they had Matsuno in custody. And he did. And he remembers clearly the near palpable relief in the SEAL's voice when Danny told him that there were no casualties, that they were all safe. And he remembers promising him to stop by and check on him as soon as he was done with the interrogation. It was a promise Danny intended to keep.

"I bet you that phone's burning a hole in your pocket right about now," Matsuno taunts, his voice dissolving into laughter when Danny's hand twitches in an unconscious effort to reach for the device. "Why don't you call him, Detective? You know you want to."

Danny forces his gaze away from the sneering bloodied face. His heart is going a mile a minute and he knows, he _**knows**_ he doesn't have a choice now. He has to make that phone call. Has to know that Steve's alright. He won't be able to focus until he does.

"Watch him," he growls to Lou, his skin tight with the need to get out into the hallway.

"Go," Lou tells him, his own eyes reflecting the worry Danny feels mounting in the pit of his stomach. "I got him. Go."

Danny rushes into the hallway, slamming the door shut on Matsuno's near maniacal laughter. Half a second later he's already on the phone, dialing Steve's number. Another tense, breathless minute later he's pushing down on the buzzer, nearly mowing Lou over as soon as the big man opens the door. In the next breath he's already pouncing on the cuffed man in the chair, his knuckles stinging as he delivers punch after punch to the smugly smiling face.

"What did you _**do**_ to him?" he roars over the flurry of vengeful blows. "Where is he? What did you DO?"

"Danny?" Lou's voice is strained with concern and the effort of once again pulling him away. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Steve's not answering his phone," he grits out, wriggling away from Lou's restraining hands. "He's not answering, Lou, and this bastard!..." He slams his foot into the metal chair, flipping it onto its side. Matsuno grunts in pain but still manages a bloodied grin in Danny's direction as Danny rams his foot in the man's gut. "...this bastard knows why. And I want him to tell me. Now!" He kicks out again, leaving Matsuno gasping for breath.

"Easy there, Jersey." Lou's hand is curled strong and unmovable around his bicep. "He won't be able to tell you shit if he passes out on you."

And, yeah, maybe Lou's got a point there, being the voice of reason and all. The problem is, Danny doesn't care for reason right now. Because something bad has happened to his best friend, he's sure of that now. Can feel it deep in his bones. So he doesn't care if he's channeling McGarrett, doesn't care if he's going against regulations beating the snot out of their suspect. All he cares is that the son of a bitch writhing like a chained up caterpillar on the cement floor tell him what's going on.

"What's the... matter... De...tective?" Matsuno wheezes out, managing to sound jeering even with a mouth full of blood. "Lo...lose someone?"

Danny lurches forward with a howl of rage, and Lou barely has time to make a grab for him before his foot connects once again with Matsuno's head.

"Stand down," Lou growls low above his ear, pinning him bodily against the opposite wall. "Stand the hell down, Williams. This isn't helping."

"He did something. To Steve... He did _**something**_...," Danny hisses, struggling futilely against an immovable mountain of muscle keeping him in place.

"You don't know that, Danny," Lou's voice is softer now, the older man ducking his head to catch Danny's anguished gaze. "Come on, man. He could just be pulling your chain here, getting you all riled up over nothing."

Danny stares at him for all of two heartbeats, chest heaving. "You're right," he bites out finally. "I need to know for sure. I gotta... I gotta go." And then he's throwing all his weight into pushing Lou back, and the big man, stunned by the sudden shift in the direction of their conversation, lets it happen. Another heartbeat later he's already running out the door, Lou hot on his heels.

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They drive up to McGarrett's house – the remaining 5-0 contingent and two HPD cars, lights and sirens shattering the languid afternoon air, wreaking havoc on the quiet neighborhood. The house stands empty, front door left ajar, and Danny's running toward it, gun drawn, his precious car abandoned open-doored in the driveway.

"Steve!" he hollers, barreling across the threshold into the center of the living room and looking about him with a wild, desperate gaze. Nothing seems out of place, however. No broken or overturned furniture, no signs of struggle. And, most importantly, no- "STEEEEVE!"

"Danny," Kono calls out, and he turns to see her leaning over something on the floor next to the doorway.

"What? What is it?"

He's already jogging back toward her, when she looks up at him, her face pale, eyes wide with worry. "Taser confetti," she says tightly, pointing to the colorful little circles scattered on the floor near her feet. "I think–"

"He took him," Danny finishes for her, his throat constricted in a vise of stifling, paralyzing fear. "Matsuno's partner... He... Shit!" The room darkens suddenly, and Danny folds in on himself, hands braced against his knees, as he struggles to control the rising panic that prevents him from drawing a single effective breath.

He feels Kono's hand on his back, her anxious voice calling out to him, but all he can think is that it's all his fault. He left Steve alone, without protection, knowing that there's a pair of crazy anti-government extremists out there, targeting cops. Yes, the guy's a Navy SEAL who probably knows a hundred ways to kill a person with nothing more than a broken fingernail. But right now he's injured, vulnerable. And Danny, in his frenzied drive to catch the crazy bastards responsible for killing his fellow officers, made his partner an easy, accessible target.

The ringing of his phone pulls him out of the self-deprecating downward spiral of his thoughts and he picks it up absently, his heart stuttering in hope and apprehension as he sees Steve's smiling face pop up on screen. The hope is dashed as soon as he opens the connection and hears an unfamiliar voice spit out, "You have thirty minutes to release Kohaku Matsuno from custody, Detective, or your partner dies."

He straightens out fully, his grip on the phone well beyond painful. "How do I know you have him?" he retorts, only just managing to keep his voice steady. "How do I know he's still alive?" He is aware that all eyes are on him now, can feel the concerned heat of their gazes, but his own are stubbornly closed, his full attention drawn to the disdainful raspy voice on the other end.

"I will text you proof of the former," the voice concedes, "and you're gonna have to trust me that he is... for now."

"But how–"

"Thirty minutes, Detective." And the line goes dead, the connection broken.

A few seconds later, a new text message pops up. Hand trembling, Danny clicks open the attachment and feels bile rise in his throat.

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><p><em>Dun-dun-duuun... Well, I would really, REALLY love to know what you think. It's a bit different, like I said. Maybe a role reversal for the boys, in a way. But does it still work? What do you say? Should I finish this?<em>


	31. Leverage Part II

**A/N Thank you so very much! What a pleasant surprise to see so many positive responses to this attempt. (now I'll be tempted to try out more crazy things - be warned ;-)) So sorry I couldn't reply to all of you. Things got a bit busy, and I was trying to get the story finished before the idea slipped away from me. Please know that I am hugely grateful to all of you for your responses! xoxoxo**

**This chapter kind of ran away from me a bit. I almost split it up into two, because it was starting to drag on too much, but I didn't want to torture you with an additional chapter, so here goes :)**

**Please, keep in mind that, while I do make every attempt to research accurate information on the things my muse wants to play with, I am no expert, and mistakes are bound to happen. I hope the chapter/resolution makes sense the way I'd written it, and I very much hope the ending makes sense as well. **

**I'll be looking forward to your thoughts.**

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><p><strong>Leverage. Part II<strong>

There's a hard surface underneath him. Cold, metal. A voice filters into his consciousness, phrases fragmentary and distorted by the thick cottony swathe that envelops it. The voice is unfamiliar, raspy and low, but there's something menacing in the haughty tone, a sense of danger that nags at him, forces him into greater awareness. He peels his eyes open a slit, catches a glimpse of black polished shoes and navy blue uniform. HPD. No! Wrong. It was all wrong.

Flashes of memory skitter across his mind. _A doorbell. A uniformed officer at the door. "I have an urgent message from Detective Williams. If you would follow me, please." Something feels off, though, out of place. A tattoo, a prison tattoo on the inside of the right forearm. Not a cop. An impostor. He steps back, his good arm grasping the edge of the door, pulling it closed. The fake cop's arm snakes forward and he feels his muscles seize with pain and shock, as wave after wave of electricity courses through his body, obliterating his consciousness to woefully scattered shreds._

He sees the man – his abductor – lean in closer, hears the click of the cell phone camera. Taking his picture, Steve guesses. For what purpose, he doesn't know. Can't guess. Can't even think straight, his head's throbbing so much. Darkness teeters at the edges of his vision, threatening to spill over and blacken everything out. He digs his teeth into the inside of his cheek, using this latest sharp pinprick of pain for his awareness to gain a more solid purchase.

The man's still standing close by, busy fiddling with the phone, and Steve grabs his chance. He kicks out, his foot connecting solidly, if a bit sloppily, with his kidnapper's knee. So his coordination is still a bit off. That's okay, though. Concussion would do that to you. He knows he's hit his mark. Hears it in the grunt of pained surprise, sees it in the way the man stumbles away from him. It's a start.

He tries to roll onto his side, tries to get his feet under him so he can press his advantage. It's of no use, though, as the black-shoed foot bursts into his vision like an enraged mamba, striking indiscriminately wherever it can reach. His stomach, his ribcage, his head. Once, and then again and again. Until he knows nothing but the raging wildfire of pain and nausea that courses through him, threatening to incinerate everything within its reach. He slams his eyes shut, curling away from the vicious retaliation.

"That was a very, _**very**_ stupid move, Commander!" The angry words explode above him, muted once again as he fights desperately to draw in a breath. Something hard bounces off his cheek, lands with a dull, hollow thunk onto the floor beside him. The kidnapper's voice is closer all of a sudden, hissing right above his ear. "Your team has 30 minutes to find you, McGarrett. If you're lucky and they manage to track down your phone before it dies, it might shave you off a few minutes. Let's see if you're lucky enough to hold your breath for that long."

The man pulls back, and Steve peels his eyes open once again, watches him walk away, his footsteps echoing hollowly across the metal floor. Blearily he tracks the guy's movements, squinting against the harsh sunlight that floods through the open doors at the other end. Until his kidnapper steps through those doors and slams both halves closed behind him, plunging him into absolute darkness.

_Shit_. His casted arm pressed uselessly against his chest, he places his other arm palm flat onto the floor, pushes himself painfully up onto his knees.

The move is a mistake.

Darkness swirls and spins around him at a maddening speed, his stomach revolting as his concussed brain reminds him viciously of its less than stellar condition. Nausea seizes him and doesn't let go long after his stomach clenches empty and he is reduced to violent, body-shuddering dry heaves. Each gagged exhale – a stab of white-hot pain through his aching skull.

He's flat on his stomach when it's finally over, clammy and trembling, eyes screwed shut against the exhausting torment. Consciousness wavers like TV picture with poor satellite reception, threatening to slip away altogether, and he wants nothing more than to let it. He can't, though. Because there's this voice in the back of his head that's keeping him from giving in to darkness. A voice that's telling him to stop being a wuss and get the fuck up. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Danny's.

_Danny. The phone..._ The kidnapper dropped it here somewhere. And Steve's brain is too muddled right now to make sense of the guy's words, to understand why the phone is due to stop working soon. He just remembers that it will, and he knows he needs to find it before it does. It's the only chance he's got.

He opens his eyes cautiously, gratified to note that they've adapted somewhat to their surroundings and he can see the vague contours of his metal prison. He can see the small lump of the cell phone, too, about a foot away from his arm. Carefully, he reaches toward it, swipes the screen. The display flares to life, the bright light stabbing at his eyes. He flinches, swallowing convulsively against the nausea that threatens once again, squints myopically at the list of contacts before pressing down on the very first number.

"Da...Danny," he wheezes the moment the familiar strained voice comes on the line. There is a torrent of words coming his way, frantic, relieved, demanding. He can't make sense of them all, his head hurts too much. But he's happy, oh, _**so happy**_ to hear Danny's voice – his partner's undisguised worry for his person pulling at him, commanding him to hang on.

No, he doesn't know where he is. Not exactly. But there are faint sounds and smells that filter in from outside the metal walls. Familiar ones, soothing. "Ocean...," he murmurs, pulling himself back up on his knees. "Seagulls... waves... I–" He trails off, his shoulder scraping along the cool metal as he wobbles precariously in search of a steadier position. _Metal... near ocean..._ An idea forms and he blurts it out, pushing his jumbled brain to connect the dots. "Shipping container... Danny, I think–"

_"Good," _Danny cuts in, and Steve can hear him yelling at someone in the background, the urgency in his tone unmistakable. _"That's good. We're tracking your signal now, babe. You just hang on, you hear? I'm coming for you. Just hang on."_

He nods lightly, forgetting for a moment that Danny can't actually see him. His head is pounding and he is still having trouble catching his breath, but there's something else he needs to tell Danny, something important. "Tattoo... Danny... right... right arm... not a cop..."

He's rambling, he knows. His words – confusing at best, incomprehensible at worst. And Danny's voice rises in growing concern, demanding explanation. He licks his lips, preparing to try again. But there's a sudden, loud metallic noise on the outside, something scraping harshly against the walls. And then the entire container – and he's sure now that it is a shipping container – shudders and shifts, gets jerked roughly upwards, then to the side.

The movement throws him off balance, tosses him back onto the floor, the phone clattering away as he instinctively puts out his uninjured hand to minimize the damage. He cringes in pain, sucks in a rapid, convulsive breath, his gaze seeking out the dropped phone as he prepares to crawl after it.

He doesn't get a chance. The container's movement stops abruptly, aborting his nascent attempt at rising. There's a moment of weightlessness, an uncontrolled drop, followed by an equally abrupt, jarring stop. He's flung viciously against the opposite wall, the explosion of pain only lasting a merciful split of a second as his awareness flames out, his body crumpling into a limp, twisted mess.

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"Tell me you got something, Kono. _**Please**_, tell me you got something!" He sounds desperate, he knows, but he can't get Steve's voice out of his head, how weak, how pained it sounded. And then the abrupt loss of connection, the lack of any further response to his repeated, frantic calls...

"I got his cell phone," Kono's strained voice calls back. She's not even looking up from her laptop that's set up right on the trunk of the Camaro. "The signal's weak, but it's there. Sand Island."

That's all the information he needs, and he's already jumping back into his car, waiting long enough for Kono to slide in beside him, and peels out of Steve's driveway like a bat out of hell, confident that the others will follow. Fingers curled around the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, he rams the gas pedal forcefully into the floor, his lips moving in a silent, feverish mantra, "Hang on, babe. Please, _**please**_, hang on. I'm coming, Steve, I'm coming."

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Water is what awakens him. Cold, salty water that rolls over his face, making him sputter. He blinks his eyes open, shifts sluggishly away from the unwelcome moisture. Only to find that it's all around him, rapidly pouring in from the seams. The container's sinking. He's sinking. And he's screwed.

Panic is a momentary weakness, however. A luxury he doesn't allow himself, can't afford. His team will rescue him, he knows. Trusts in them implicitly. He just needs to hold on long enough for them to do it. Get up off his ass, so he doesn't drown lying on the floor like a goddamn trench monkey. Swim if he has to. He's a SEAL, for Christ's sake. Swimming should be easy. Piece of a fucking cake.

Dazedly, he gets to his knees, teeth clenched tight against nausea and pain. Water is at his waist level now, rising steadily. It will be at his chest level soon. Will cover him fully soon after. Standing up is out of the question, he knows. His legs cannot support his weight. Not with the way he's wobbling even now as he attempts to raise himself a bit higher on his knees. So he braces himself against the wall, waits for the water level to rise just enough, and then he pushes up off his support and kicks upward, letting the water hold him up.

He treads the steadily climbing water, using just enough energy to stay afloat. The dark blue eyes squint worriedly up at the metal roof. It's closer now. Much, much too close. Soon enough there won't be any space left for him to move, any air left for him to breathe.

_"Now would be a good time, Danny," _he thinks, uneasy, as the top of his head bumps the ceiling. _"A really good time." _ He lifts his chin up, greedily gulping up the rapidly dwindling salty air. The water splashes across his face, stinging the broken skin there. He sucks in a breath for one last time and holds it in, just as the watery darkness closes above him completely.

Seconds tick away in his mind, his lungs bursting with the mounting pressure. He won't be able to hold out for much longer, and once he exhales...

_"Don't even think about it!" _Danny's voice roars deep within his embattled mind, calling on him to rally, to hang on. And he tries. He really, really does. But he's tired, so, _**so**_ awfully tired, his dwindling reserves allowing pain to surge once again to the forefront of his consciousness, tearing at it, ripping it to shreds. He sputters and heaves, water rushing in past his waning defenses. His body thrashes momentarily, survival instinct taking over. But there's no deliverance, no reprieve, and soon the thrashing stops, his limp form sinking heavily to the bottom.

_"I'm sorry, Danny..."_

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It's another twenty minutes before the Camaro comes to a rubber-screeching halt in between a colorful wall of rust-dyed containers and an old crane. Kono's lost the signal completely a few minutes ago, the last ping showing the cell phone just off the pier somehow. Danny doesn't quite know what it means yet, doesn't want to think what it might mean, but his sense of urgency is literally flaying him alive.

There are at least ten more HPD cars pulling up behind them, and he sends a quick thank you to whomever thought of calling in more reinforcements. Because they're gonna need them, gonna need every single man and woman available to help comb through these containers and find Steve.

"Start with the ones closest to the water!" he yells at the first officer he sees, because if Steve was close enough to hear and smell the ocean it would make sense to start there. The officer nods, raising his hand for a quick salute, and Danny's eyes grow wide, his heart stuttering in his chest. There is a flash of ink on the man's right forearm, a tattoo. Steve's slurred out words flash through his mind – _"...not a cop..."_ – and he's pulling out his weapon before he even consciously realizes what he's doing.

"Freeze!" he yells, the weapon pointed squarely at the uniformed chest, as the man takes a startled, stumbling step backwards. "Don't move. Don't you fucking move!"

The others converge on them now, weapons raised without question in his support. The fake officer glances around him, his gaze furtive and dangerous like that of a trapped animal. There's no escape, though, and he realizes that, too, his teeth baring in a hateful sneer.

"Congratulations, Detective," he says, and, oh, Danny recognizes that raspy voice and his fingers curl even tighter around the trigger, trembling with the need to squeeze it. "You found the place. Now, how long do you think it's gonna take you to find your partner?"

Danny steps forward, the barrel of his gun inches away from the man's chest. "You tell me where he is," he growls out, his voice low and deadly. "Tell me now."

The man huffs out a tiny, disdainful laugh, carefully pulls an old-fashioned flip phone out of his pocket – simple, untraceable. "I'm afraid I cannot do that, Detective," he says calmly, as if he doesn't have a care in the world, as if there aren't some twenty odd guns aimed at him at the moment. "You see, my associate, Mr. Matsuno is supposed to call me on this phone the moment he gets out. And I'm still waiting to hear from him. Until I do," his grin disappears, dark eyes bore coldly into Danny's, "until I do, I'm afraid I will not be able to help you locate the Commander."

"You and Matsuno are cop killers," Danny refuses, his expression as hard as the grip he's got on his gun. "There's no way either one of you is walking away from this."

The man gives a minute shrug of regret, folds his arm across his chest with an air of nonchalance. "Then neither is your partner."

Danny roars in anger, his weapon jabbing under the man's chin.

"What are you gonna do, Detective? Shoot me?" The bastard's confident smile is a perfect echo of Matsuno's, and Danny feels the last of his patience snap away.

His gun arm drops toward the man's leg even as his trigger finger twitches once, the retort of the weapon bumping hard against his palm. The fake cop howls in pain, dropping gracelessly onto the concrete. Danny doesn't give him a chance to recover. Plopping down heavily on top of him, he leans over to the pain-twisted face, jabbing the muzzle of the weapon hard into the wound.

"Tell me where he is," he repeats, cold rage staining his words. "Tell me, before I shoot you again."

"Shoo...shoot me all you like... You'll never... find him...," the man huffs out with a pained laughter. "You're too... late."

"No!" Danny shakes his head in brutal denial, despair wrenching his insides into a mess of white-hot agony. _It can't be true. It can't be. _

"Danny, wait!" Kono's fingers curl around his shoulder, the urgency in her voice pulling his attention away from the sneering face. "Steve's phone pinged just off the pier here. What if he–"

Danny's eyes widen in realization, his breath catching. "Divers," he wheezes, "we need divers."

Kono squeezes his shoulder once more with a reassuring, "I got this," and then she's off like a shot, two more HPD officers behind her. Danny rises, too, his legs trembling as he watches his teammate quickly shed her uniform in favor of a wetsuit and a mask (and bless Kono and her obsession with all things water for always having her gear with her).

"There's a crawler crane over by those crates," someone says beside him, and he turns to find a familiar officer talking to him. For the life of him, he can't remember the man's name. "The container crane won't be able to hook it up from the bottom, but this one," he points to the crane in question, "my uncle works with those, I've helped him out some. If I can lower the hook for the divers..."

"Do it," he nods. And then he waits, agitated and helpless, watching intently as the action unfolds around him. Dimly he registers two of the officers cuff Matsuno's bleeding accomplice and pull him off the ground, leading him away to a squad car. Vaguely he hears someone call in for an ambulance, feels a comforting arm on his shoulder. Lou, he thinks, because he's pretty sure he's seen Chin dive into the water as well. He isn't sure, though. Wasn't paying that close of attention. His life has zeroed in to a single point just above the water, where the hook of the crawler crane has just gone in.

And when that hook rises out of the water what seems like hours later, a waterlogged container dangling sideways in the crook of it, Danny surges forward, tripping over his own feet in a hurry to get there.

Water sluices out from the seams, and Danny's feet are already soaked even before he gets to the door. He pays it no heed as he hacks viciously away at the small padlock that's keeping the door closed.

The lock falls away and he wrenches the door open, the sudden gush of water knocking him off his feet. He sputters against it, scrambles to get his feet back under him, and then something heavy slams into his chest, obliterating his momentum to naught. He oomphs, the air punched out of his lungs, and then his stunned mind comes back online and he wraps his arms around the sodden object lying on top of him and flips them over, frantically palming the cold, wet skin.

"Steve. Steve!"

His brother lies limp before him, eyes closed, lips blue against the gray-tinged face, and Danny moves without conscious thought, his palms pressing firmly on the all-too-still chest. He knows Steve's got some broken ribs there already, knows that he's probably gonna make it worse. But better a few more broken ribs than the alternative. Because the alternative isn't acceptable. No way. No how. And so he pumps, rhythmically, frantically, stopping only long enough to blow two quick breaths into his brother's mouth.

"Come on, you bullheaded son of a bitch, come on!" he huffs out, desperate now, as his friend remains stubbornly unresponsive. "Don't do this to me, man, _**please**_!"

Someone moves in beside him, offers to take over the mouth-to-mouth. He merely nods, not daring to look away from Steve's face, as if somehow this visual connection will pull the SEAL to the here and now, drag his ass back to him.

His arms ache with exertion, his bad knee screaming at him to get up. _Too long_, his mind tells him cruelly, _it's been too long. You're too late. _And he's crying openly now, tears of despair streaming down his cheeks, mixing with the residual ocean water.

"Breathe, babe," he sobs out, pressing again and again, "I'm begging you, please, please, please, breathe!..."

Steve's body jerks suddenly underneath him, a harsh gurgling sound reaching Danny's ears, and Danny responds instantly, twisting his brother onto his uninjured side, as the man retches forcefully, bringing up lungfuls of brackish, stale water. He keeps his hand on Steve's shuddering back, his own body trembling with adrenaline dump and relief.

Steve turns his head sluggishly toward him, his bleary, unfocused gaze seeking out Danny's. His lips move soundlessly, and Danny leans in closer, cupping the clammy cheek. "What is it, babe?"

"Took your... sweet... t-time... did ya..." The words are pained, breathless, but Danny can sense mirth behind them, can see a spark of tired amusement in the dark blue eyes.

He laughs, a bit hysterical, pulling his partner's shivering form gently off the ground and wrapping him tightly against him.

"You know how it is, babe. **_Nobody_ **can drive my car like you do," he huffs out, reveling in the simple sensation of his brother's breaths against his neck.

Hands tightening a fraction more around Steve's shoulders, he places a quick, grateful kiss into the sodden hair, nods absently to the approaching EMTs before reluctantly releasing him into their care. But he keeps his hand anchored in Steve's even as his brother is being whisked away toward the awaiting ambulance. He just got him back, barely, and he won't allow anyone or anything break that connection now. And as he sits in the ambulance alongside Steve's stretcher, he leans over to his partner's dazedly smiling face and asserts once more the simple truth that goes far beyond the word that expresses it.

"_**Nobody**_."

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><p><em>Ugh, I don't know about that ending. Couldn't quite get it right. I hope it makes sense, though, at the very least. <em>

_Okay_,_ I'm gonna go hide now and hope for some inspiration to strike for my other stories_


	32. 4x19 Tag

**A/N So, just a quick disclaimer. This here is an oldie. I wrote it almost right after episode 4x19 aired, and I just never felt that it was ready to be posted. I kept having doubts about it, and not just because there've been soooooo many stories written on that episode already (although it was a big factor, for sure). Most tags to this episode centered on more Danny whump, and I wasn't sure that a Steve-whumping version would be acceptable here. So now, over a year later (ha!), I finally decided to look this story over again and I figured I'd give it a try. It can certainly work as a two-parter, although I haven't written anything beyond what I have here. I can, though, if there's enough agreement that there should be a part II. I'll wait to hear what you, guys, think before I do anything else with this.**

**A/N2 To the several guests who've asked me to write a comfort tag with Danny taking of Steve. I think I can work something out. I won't write a comfort tag to any of the installments that I've already written, because this collection simply doesn't work like that - the stories are episodal, without clear beginnings or endings, without clear plot (perfect for a lazy writer like myself ;-)). BUT what I can do is write a separate comfort-only story that would focus on recovery after ... something, some case that went sideways. Hopefully, that is an acceptable compromise :) **

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><p><strong>4x19 Tag. Part I (?)<strong>

He hears the telltale hiss of the gunpowder igniting, even as he twists around, leaping across the tiny space that separates him from Danny, and braces himself on a chunk of concrete that juts out above the blond's head, hoping to shield his injured friend from whatever is to happen next.

He has a split second to wonder if Danny wasn't right, if creating an explosion within such a tight space wasn't too insane of an idea. But it is too late, and the feeble 'what if' evaporates under the vicious onslaught of reality.

The deafening roar of an explosion tears through their tiny rubble-filled room, the blast sending a wave of searing pain across his back and slamming him brutally into the warm body underneath. Bits of rock – some small, some not so much – rain down on them, and he bites his lip against the pain and keeps his head down, trying to shield Danny as much as possible, as he waits for the dust to settle.

Finally everything grows quiet again, and Danny groans beneath him, pushing weakly against his chest.

"Do you ... mind getting off of me... you big... lug?" he wheezes out, his injured body protesting the extra weight of a two-hundred-pound Navy SEAL crushing down on him.

Steve nods wordlessly into the darkness above Danny's shoulder and pushes up on his hands, trying to shift away. Pain roars to life once more – a scorching, merciless spike of breath-robbing agony, ripping through his lower back – and he seizes rigidly mid-movement under the unexpected onslaught, before collapsing awkwardly onto his side. Eyes slammed shut, teeth ripping savagely into his bottom lip to stop himself from screaming, he lies there, concentrating on nothing more than just drawing in breath after unsteady breath, waiting for the roaring in his ears to subside.

"Well, this was fun."

Danny's voice is muffled by the thick veil of fog that seems to have wrapped itself around his consciousness, and he swallows harshly, clawing his way through the haze. _Compartmentalize the pain. Compartmentalize. _He forces his eyes to open, ignoring the dark spots that danced in his vision, and squints at his partner, worriedly evaluating the shorter man's state.

A new layer of dust coats the Jersey native, covering the areas that had recently been wiped more or less clean. Other than that, however, the man looks intact, and Steve can see no new injuries. The SEAL huffs out a quick breath of relief, pulling his bloodied lips into what he hopes looks like a smile.

"Glad you enjoyed it," he replies in kind, gratified that he managed to make his voice sound this steady.

Danny merely huffs in response, pointing gleefully somewhere behind him. "Gotta hand it to you, babe. Your unhealthy propensity to blow things up really did pay off this time."

Blinking the dust out of his eyes, Steve shifts cautiously until he can see behind him. _Light. There is light filtering toward them through a loose pile of rubble. _

"You did it man," Danny's voice cuts through the momentary confusion, and he looks back to find his partner staring at him with a strange mixture of awe and relief.

He chooses not to dwell on it, focusing instead on the task at hand, treating this like a mission, locking away everything but the ultimate goal – to get Danny out of this concrete tomb, to get him to safety.

"We need to...," he trails off, suddenly breathless, and wheezes in the dust-filled air, trying to pull some oxygen into his starved lungs. The attempt ends in a bout of dry cough that rams a red-hot iron poker deep into his back, twisting it along the way. Light and sound disappear momentarily, whitened out by the sheer intensity of the pain, and suddenly Danny is crouching in front of him, and he finds himself looking at the concerned pale blue eyes of his friend.

"Hey, you okay?"

He manages a nod, not trusting himself to speak just yet. Danny's hand finds his shoulder somehow, clasping it - warm and steadying, and he lets that presence seep into him, finding the needed strength in its reassuring constancy.

"Alright then," Danny nods in kind, though his voice still holds a trace of doubt at the veracity of his assessment. The Jersey native chooses not to dwell on it, though, knowing perfectly well that both of them would benefit from getting out of this place as soon as possible. "Wanna help me get this rubble cleared, so we can get out of here?"

Steve smiles a breathless smile, letting Danny pull him up to his feet. The poker twists sharp and hot in his back, but he ignores it, grinding his teeth through the pain, as he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other.

It is fairly easy to pull back the loose rubble, even though Steve's attempts at helping Danny threaten to tear the tenuous hold he has on his consciousness. Yet he hangs on with stubborn determination, needing to finish his task, needing to make sure that Danny gets out. His friend's confession earlier on about not trusting anything good in his life to last had cut him to the core. He meant it when he said that he just wanted Danny to be happy. Whether Amber is the person to make him happy or not, he doesn't know. What he does know is that Danny deserves a chance at that happiness, and while there is still breath left in his body he is going to make damn sure that Danny gets that chance.

Danny glances questioningly at him, as the rescue harness is lowered down to them, coming to rest at his shoulder level. It is as though he is once again evaluating Steve's condition, and Steve can't have that. Not if it means that Danny would reconsider going first.

"You want me to help you get into that?" he asks cheekily, trying to conceal the fact that his left hand, while pretending to be merely resting on a piece of concrete is, in fact, holding onto it for dear life.

"No, no, I got it," the blond brushes him off with a frown, wincing as he eases his arms into the harness. Giving Steve another skeptical look, he adds, "You're not planning on doing something crazy like blowing up more of the building while I'm gone, are you?"

Steve shakes his head, chuckling tiredly. "I'm fresh out of grenades, Danno, don't worry. I'll be right behind you."

"I'll hold you to that," the blond nods, his gaze so serious and intense that Steve almost feels guilty for lying to him. Instead he leans forward, helping secure the harness around Danny's waist.

"I'll see you, buddy," he whispers, tugging on the rope to signal to the rescuers to start pulling his friend up.

He watches him glide upwards, and as Danny's dangling legs slips slowly out of view, he lets himself relax, half-sliding half-collapsing back onto the floor, moaning weakly, as his abused back makes rough contact with the cold, coarse stone. Darkness pulls at him, forceful and unrelenting, unapologetically draining the pitiful leftovers of his strength. His eyelids slide closed, too unwieldy for him to hold up any longer, and he sags heavily against his concrete support, the pain of contact no longer registering in his waning consciousness. In his mind's eye he pictures his brother up on the surface being engulfed in Amber's warm embrace, Grace tucked with frenzied relief into his side. And he lets himself smile, despite the mournful ache in his heart. Because he can see Danny safe, and happy, surrounded by people who love him, by people he loves. And that is as it should be, even if he can no longer be part of it.

The wan, pale smile remains on his lips even as he slips into unconsciousness, letting the voracious darkness submerge him completely. He never sees the harness being lowered into the hole the second time. Never hears the frantic calls of his name from up above. Never feels the hands of the rescuers – gentle but hurried – as they secure his limp form into the harness and pull him urgently up into the awaiting arms of his worried friends.

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><p><em>Okay, so this is as far as I got with this version. It doesn't necessarily need anything else, since this is an episode tag and we know that both boys made it out safely. But, like I said, I will defer to your suggestions<em>


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N So, first of all, wow... that was quite a response to the previous chapter. Thank you so much! Wow... If I knew that little story would be so well received, I wouldn't have waited a whole year LOL. And**** most of you seem to agree that a part 2 is needed. Okay, I will do my best. I already have a rough sketch in mind, so I'll try to work something out with that. **

**In the meantime, this little one-shot here popped up quite unexpectedly, prompted by this tumblr pic: ****weinsanedreamer dot tumblr dot com forward slash post forward slash 133467762983 forward slash some-much-needed-mcdanno-fluff-i-got-around-to**

**The author of the pic theorized that Steve here is having a panic attack with Danny comforting him. My muse took one look at that image and the author's suggestion and couldn't let it go. This was written very quickly and is unbeta'ed, so any and all mistakes are mine. I very much hope the story makes sense as it stands. Would love to know what you, guys, think.**

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><p>"Danny, Danny, Danny..."<p>

Steve's voice is hoarse, broken, muffled by where his face is pressed flush against Danny's chest. Desperate fingers are entangled deep within the material of Danny's shirt, twisting the fabric on the back. He's shaking like a leaf in the wind, each shuddered breath, each gasped out sob reverberating violently through his hunched over form.

Danny's own arms are wrapped just as tightly around his partner, his legs straddling Steve's as he virtually sits on top of the man, all but fusing the shivering SEAL against him. "I'm here, babe," he murmurs fervently into Steve's ear, "I'm here. I got you. You're alright."

He knows that last part is far from true. Steve isn't even in the same planetary system as alright. Hasn't been since his return from Afghanistan. The man was strung tighter than the skin of a drum, holding together by sheer force of will, it seemed. But the cracks were there. Danny could see them in the occasional haunted look in the stormy blue eyes, in the return of Steve's inflexibility and uptightness from the days of old, from before Danny had a chance to mellow him out, in his frequent losses of temper that had him snapping at his teammates like a dog in a pound, in his uncharacteristic jumpiness and unease. Those cracks were growing wider and more pronounced each day. And Danny was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Wanted it to happen, in fact. Because Steve needed to pull the damn cork out on his bottled up emotions. Needed to let it all out, to cry, to rage, to break things if he had to. All so he could finally start to heal. So, yes, Danny was hoping the crash would take place sooner or later. He just didn't expect that crash to happen in such a dramatic manner.

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They went undercover, he and Steve. Which was a spectacularly bad idea to begin with, and Danny was vocally against it from the very start. But the deal to purchase a case with weapons-grade plutonium was happening tonight, the buyer flying in from the mainland, and they had no other options. The dealer they arrested gave them the time and the place for the buy, claiming not to know any details about the buyer beyond the man's name. That name, however, was enough. Essa Abadi. A man with known ties to several terrorist organizations. Number four on the INTERPOL's Most Wanted. They didn't know who else Abadi was bringing along with him for the buy, didn't know what information the man had on Brian O'Malley, their currently incarcerated dealer. All they knew was that Abadi could not be allowed to leave the island and disappear once again.

Turns out O'Malley lied about not knowing Abadi personally. No surprise there. Honestly, Danny should've expected that, just as he should've expected a mission (any mission) with McGarrett to go disastrously wrong. It isn't the man's fault, really. Danny's convinced that Steve simply has something in his DNA that triggers every bad scenario possible at any given opportunity.

Abadi took one look at them, nodded to his men – four bulky goons with beady, bear-like eyes and heads that seemed to grow right out of their anvil-like shoulders bypassing the need for a neck – and an instant later he and Steve were on their knees in the middle of the dirt road, guns pointed at them from all directions.

Abadi was in Steve's face, his dark, angry eyes boring into the other man. He wanted to know where his dealer was. He'd let them go, he said, if they told him the truth. Steve remained predictably silent, but Danny could see the strained clench of his friend's jaws, the rapidly pulsating vein in his forehead. He looked like a boiler that was about to burst. And Danny opened his mouth to say something to his partner, when Abadi pulled out a knife. His left arm twisted violently in Steve's short hair, he jerked the SEAL's head backwards and pressed the blade hard against the exposed neck, demanding that Steve give him the information he wanted. Threatening swift and terrible retribution if Steve refused. That one growled out threat was as far as he got.

Danny isn't quite sure what happened next. It was all too fast, too savagely efficient, too overwhelmingly gory for him to process. All he knows is that he saw something flash in Steve's eyes when that knife slid under his chin, saw something shift in his expression, snapping from calm to panic to blind rage within a matter of nanoseconds. And then all hell broke loose.

HPD moved in as soon as they heard the shots fired, and then they were surrounded by a dizzying ring of flashing lights, the harsh sea of headlights from HPD cruisers flooding the small dusty plane where Steve stood swaying and trembling in the middle of a carnage. Teeth bared in a feral grin, eyes darting wildly from side to side, as they scanned the scene before him, he heaved in harsh, ragged breaths of someone on the verge of a full-blown panic attack, his gun pointed unerringly at the officers who were trying to approach him. He reminded Danny of an injured wolf, cornered by hunters and desperate for escape. Desperate enough to rip out the throat of the first human that dared to approach him.

Sure enough, as soon as one of the officers came a bit too close for comfort, Steve fired – a warning shot, thank God! – and the man jumped back with a curse that was drowned out by the explosive sound of a shot out windshield.

"Stay back!" Danny roared, motioning for everyone to move away. "Everybody, stay the hell back!"

Steve jerked at the sound of his voice, swiveling in place to face him, and Danny felt his heart clench with anguish at the fearful, haunted look in his partner's eyes. Raising his arms in the air in a gesture of submission, he took a careful step forward, his eyes never leaving Steve's.

"Steven? Babe? Put the gun down, please," he said softly, wincing in involuntary fear when Steve's trigger finger tightened at his words. "Come on, babe, I know I've called you an animal on more than one occasion, but you're really scaring the shit out of your colleagues here."

The attempt at a joke fell flat, Steve blinking dazedly at him over the barrel of his gun.

"Da...Danny?"

Steve's voice was barely above a whisper, raspy and unsure, but Danny smiled encouragingly at this spark of recognition, daring to take another step toward his friend. Steve frowned at him, swallowing with apparent difficulty before once again casting a wary glance at the officers hovering just at the edges of their light-bathed circle.

"You can't be here, Danny," Steve whispered urgently, his face morphing once again into a determined military mask. "There're more insurgents out there. It's not safe."

Danny shook his head, shifting closer still, close enough to touch. "I don't know what it is you're seeing there, babe, but it's not real," he said, dropping his voice to match Steve's. "You're on Oahu, in Hawaii. You're safe."

Steve squinted at him, eyes dark with suspicion and disbelief as he digested the words. "Oahu?" he mumbled, once again scanning the scene before him. "But I saw... I heard..."

"It wasn't real," Danny repeated, reaching out to take Steve's hand. Steve jerked at the touch, his gaze sliding down to rest on Danny's fingers, but he didn't pull away, and Danny took it as a good sign. Gently, as if he were handling a delicate, precious flower, he tugged Steve's hand toward him, laying it flush against his chest right above the heart. "Feel that?" he asked, watching Steve stare at their entwined hands in dazed confusion, his eyes widening a fraction at the feel of Danny's heartbeat against the skin of his palm. "This is real, Steve. I'm real. You're safe."

Steve blinked sluggishly, his mouth working in breathless silence.

"Danny," he rasped finally, his gaze rising slowly to meet Danny's, and Danny felt his own breath cut out at the depth of pain he saw there. "Danny, I... I need... Danny..."

And then he was falling, crumpling to the ground like a puppet whose strings have been suddenly, crudely cut off. And Danny had but a fraction of a breath to reach out and wrap his arms around his partner, to cushion his collapse and to hang on.

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"Detective." Someone is leaning in beside him, insistent hands pulling on his shoulder. "Detective, the Commander needs to come with us now."

Steve stiffens against him, his partner's fingers digging into the back of his shirt with even more desperation as if hoping to prevent Danny from letting him go. He needn't worry. Danny has no intention of letting Steve go any time soon.

"Get back and give us some space," he growls at the intruder without even bothering to turn his head in the man's direction.

"Detective," the voice insists, "he almost shot an officer. He needs to–"

"The only thing he needs right now is to have some space," Danny snaps, huddling over his partner's shivering form like a mother tiger over her cub. "And if you and your people don't move back right now, I'm gonna shoot you for real."

The threat does the trick, and they are left alone, at least for the time being. Danny's sure that this isn't the end of it. That there will be a likely reprimand and an unpleasant talk with the governor in their future. That this breakdown is nothing more than the beginning of a likely very long and very arduous healing process. A process Danny will be sure to help Steve through every step of the way.

For now, though, they are given what they need – time for Steve to recover, to regain purchase in reality, to breathe. And Danny runs the fingers of his right hand gently through Steve's sweat-dampened hair and whispers firmly and earnestly in his brother's ear, "I'm here, babe. I got you. I won't let go. I will _**never**_ let go."

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><p><em>So, there it is. Some more plotless whump and a side of comfort. I hope you enjoyed it. <em>

_Reviews make me happy and a happy me writes faster :-)_


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N This is not the 4x19 conclusion you were waiting for (yes, I'm channeling Alec Guinness here ;-). Yes, I am working on it. The thing with this series, though, these little one-shots just pop up whenever they feel like it, and once the muse gets going I can't derail her until she finishes what she started. So here's another deviation off course :)**

**So I had the idea for a one-shot involving Nahele and his father ever since I found out that Nahele's father was a criminal. I wrote up a couple of paragraphs and couldn't quite move the story along, so I set it aside . Then I saw the previews for last Friday's episode and I just knew that the muse was gonna latch on to that. And I was right. When the episode was over, I pretty much knew that I won't be writing anything else until I got this story out of my system. The muse is happier now, and I'll be moving on to other things ;)**

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><p>"I'm so sorry, Steve. I'm so... <strong>so<strong> sorry..."

The chaotic litany of rambled apologies cuts off on a shaky inhale, and he feels Nahele's cold nervous fingers slip off his wrists, the cuffs now firmly in place.

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_"I'm sorry..." _Those were the first words out of Nahele's mouth when Steve showed up at his father's construction site after receiving the teen's frantic call for help. He had been on his way to Kaili Huikala's house to arrest the man, in fact, when Nahele called, crying and begging him to come get him. Steve didn't hesitate a second.

The site was shut down for the day, the half-finished parking structure abandoned. Except for an old beat-up Taurus parked beside it and Nahele standing nervously by the driver's side door. The moment Steve laid eyes on Nahele's tear-stained, bruised face, he was out of the car like a shot, running toward the boy.

"What happened to you? Who did this?" The rapid fire questions spilled forth as he slid his fingers worriedly over the teen's face, checking the injuries.

Nahele stepped away, though, his face crumpling in regret. And Steve didn't have time to figure out what that meant. Didn't have time to react as another figure stepped out of the shadows of the parking structure. He heard the report of a gun, a scream – Nahele's. Felt something slam into midsection, throwing him backwards onto the dusty pavement. The world cracked momentarily, tilted sideways, then righted itself, and he was suddenly on his back, looking up. It was then that the pain registered – sharp and tearing, cutting off his breath. _"Shot,"_ his brain supplied sluggishly, _"I've been shot."_

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"It's a-alright, Nahele," he gasps out, trying to sound encouraging and failing miserably as his voice wavers with every hitched breath, and darkness threatens at the edges of his vision. "It's ... alright..."

Nahele moves to the front of him, gives him a tear-filled, remorseful look, his bottom lip quivering with fear. He looks like he wants to say something, but a sharp, familiar voice – Nahele's father's – stops him cold.

"Take his gun and cell phone, too. We can't be too careful around this guy." There's morbid jeering in the haughty, self-assured voice, but that voice turns chilling, deadly almost when Nahele hesitates, staring unblinking at the front of Steve's shirt, pupils blown wide with fear and alarm. "Hurry up, keiki! I don't have all day."

Nahele flinches and does as he's told, throwing a fearful look at his father. "You can't just leave him here," he tries. "Please! He needs–"

"Oh, I'm not planning on leaving him **_here_**." The mocking tone is back, Kaili taking a step toward them, motioning to Nahele with his gun. "You're gonna help him get up and walk over there." He smiles a predatory smile, pointing to the dusky parking structure behind him. "The Commander will be nice and cozy there. Nobody will bother him until morning."

"N-no," Nahele protests, shaking his head even as he twists his body in an awkward attempt to place himself as a shield between his father and Steve. "You can't... you can't do that. I won't let you."

"You won't _**let**_ me?" The elder Huikala stoops down to pick up Steve's gun, and there's a distinctive metallic click of the safety being flicked off. "You've ratted me out, boy. Don't think I've forgotten that. You don't do as I say and that busted lip will be the least of your worries."

The threat is unequivocal, a cold, simple fact. Nahele bites his lip and draws back closer to Steve, but doesn't move to stand, a look of defiance on his face diluted with undisguised fear. Steve makes the move for him. Because he made a promise to the boy, because he swore he would protect him. It's not supposed to go the other way around.

Awkwardly, with his hands cuffed behind his back, he twists and rolls and pushes himself up on his knees and stays there, sweating and wheezing, as he waits for the red-tinged blackness to recede enough for him to try again.

Hands clasp around his bicep, fingers trembling but gentle, and he peels open his eyes (and, hell, when did he close them anyway?) to find Nahele's anxious face inches away.

"It's all my fault," the teen laments, tears streaming down his bruised cheeks. "He came to see me earlier, told me I needed to come home with him. I told him I won't go, that I didn't have to because you'd be coming to arrest him soon, and he–..." Nahele's face crumples further, his breath hitching with a renewed surge of tears. "I shouldn't have said anything. ...He ...I... He made me call you... said he'll kill me if I didn't... I–"

"H-help me... up, will you?" he huffs, forestalling whatever else the teen was about to say.

Nahele flicks a look over at the parking structure, his eyebrows scrunching up in worry. Steve knows what he's thinking. It's a bad move for him, a fatally bad move, most likely. Because not only is he leaking blood like a goddamn sieve – a fact which will only be made worse by any further movement, but going inside the structure, away from any potential passers-by, will almost guarantee that he won't be found until the construction workers return the next day. And by then it'll be too late for him, far too late. But with Nahele's own life threatened, he doesn't really see himself as having much of a choice.

He's pretty sure Kaili cares about his son on some level. And he won't hurt the boy further if Nahele cooperates – Steve has to believe that. So for now he'll do what he has to to get Nahele safely out of this mess. And once they leave, once the boy's father is convinced that they're in the clear and he isn't watching the boy so closely–

"–...take my ph...phone when you get... a chance," he rasps out once Nahele has him somewhat vertical and he forces his trembling legs to move, stumbling and swaying like a sapling in the wind. He keeps his head and voice low to make sure the sinewy man walking behind them doesn't hear his slurred out words. "...c-call my p...partner... Danny... He'll... help you..."

"What about you?" Nahele's eyes are bright with concern, the bruise on his cheek standing in stark contrast with the fear-borne pallor of his skin.

Steve glances down at his blood-soaked midsection, at the bright crimson droplets that trace his wavering forward progress, and his lips twitch in regret. He doesn't need to be a doctor to know that this is bad, really bad. Nahele doesn't need to know that, though; doesn't need the worry.

"My team knows... where I ... went... They'll... find me... It'll be... f-fine," he says, trying his best to keep the shakiness out of his voice. He doesn't quite succeed if the look Nahele is giving him is anything to go by.

"Stop talking and move faster," comes the grumbled command from behind them, and Steve's eyes darken in anger as Nahele flinches at the rough tone.

"You... wanted me t-to... move... f-faster, you shouldn't have... shot me," he retorts, leaning a bit heavier on Nahele's shivering frame.

Kaili's response is a chuckle followed by a hard shove that sends him straight to his knees despite Nahele's desperate efforts to hold him up. He doesn't have the strength to get back up on his feet.

"I guess this is far enough," Kaili muses, throwing an evaluative look around them. In the next instant his foot slams into Steve's side, driving him all the way down onto the ground. "You know," he says, crouching down in front of Steve, "none of this would've happened if you had only minded your own business. I'm grateful to you for looking out for Nahele, Commander, I really am. But you set my son against me, made him rat out his own father..." He shakes his head in affected disapproval, the dark beady eyes staring down at Steve with cold hatred. "You crossed the line, Commander. Nobody messes with family. I've killed men for less."

Steve glares back in the general direction of Nahele's father, trying and failing to focus on the blurry, splintering image before him. "I w-was trying t...to ... protect him," he counters, struggling against his inexorably dipping eyelids. "An'if ... if ya... c-care at all about him... you'll...let'im ...go... Give'im a ch-chance at... normal life..."

He's exhausted by the time the last words leave his mouth, and his eyes slide closed on their own accord. He doesn't miss the disdainful huff above his ear, however, or the very next words that ram a stake of despair through his bleeding heart. "Nahele's family, Commander. All the family I got. The only way I'm letting him go is if I'm good and dead."

Steve is only partly aware of the displacement of air beside him – the man rising to leave; only partly aware of Nahele's frantic voice begging, pleading for... something. And that awareness slowly and with deadly inevitability fades out to naught.

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Danny's been on edge all day. The invigorating rush of undercover work, the jittery excitement of playing teacher to a bunch of zoned-out undergrads has finally wound down and he settled back into his normal everyday routine. A part of him missed it, the exhilaration of being forced out of his natural habitat and having to don the guise of someone entirely different. The last time he had gone undercover, it had been with Steve, and there were guns and car chases involved. This time he was without Steve at his side and everything went rather smoothly, the case getting resolved without stomach-roiling car chases or gratuitous gunfire (and Danny will be sure to rub his partner's nose in this yet another proof that the mere fact of Steve's presence is enough to tip the cosmic balance toward the tendency for violence).

Still there's this unpleasant tingling deep in Danny's gut, an unsettling sense of something not quite right. And he doesn't know where it's coming from, nor does he know how to make it stop. He had already called Rachel; had a nice chat with Grace and then Charlie. It had calmed him down somewhat, but the tremor of worry was still there and Danny decided the only way to drown it out was to immerse himself fully in the one thing that was guaranteed to clear his mind of any extraneous, inexplicable unease – baseball. Or, more precisely, professional baseball. The Mets. Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. Decision made, he grabbed himself a beer, popped the treasured DVD into the player, and kicked back, letting the outside world melt away.

He's in the middle of the incredible tenth inning when he gets the call. Taking one look at the caller ID, he rolls his eyes in mock annoyance, presses "Pause" on the remote.

"You better have a good explanation for making me pause in the middle of the greatest pitch in the history of baseball, McGarrett."

There's silence on the other end, someone's hitched breath. Then comes a hushed and worriedly shaky voice that Danny can't place until the caller identifies himself, "Detective Williams, it's Nahele. I need your help."

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He races toward the parking structure Nahele told him about, the beam of his flashlight bouncing off the unfinished tangle of metal railings and concrete pillars as he sweeps the area before him in the hope of finding any trace of his friend. He can hear the urgent wail of sirens behind him, the EMTs rushing to this location. The only reason he beat them here is that, in his frantic hurry to get to Steve, he actually drove like the man.

The beam of light catches a spot of rusty red on the floor near a narrow passageway between two pillars. He knows instantly what it is, and he rushes unhesitating into the gaping darkness beyond, flashlight pointed at the ground before him lest he should miss the blood-written trail of his brother's passage.

The blackness inside of the parking structure is absolute, undisturbed by the harsh glow of streetlights, out of reach for the soft glimmer of the stars. Danny's lone flashlight pierces the oppressive ink of the night, but it can only do so much, and Danny isn't prepared when the thin trail he's been following turns abruptly into a wide, sickeningly slurping puddle under his feet and he nearly trips over a dark lump of limbs and clothes that lies at its base.

"Steve!"

There's a chorus of voices outside, a stomping of feet. Help has arrived. "Here! Over here!" he yells in a hoarse, breaking voice and drops to his knees beside his friend, hands skimming frantically over the disturbingly still form.

Steve lies twisted on his side, his arms pulled awkwardly behind his back. It takes Danny a moment to understand why, and when he does, when his fingers catch on the thin metal rings that encircle his brother's wrists, he nearly suffocates on the wave of rage that washes over him. Growling deep under his breath, he reaches for a handcuff key, snaps the goddamn things off.

"Steve... Steve!" he tries again, sliding behind his friend to gently tilt his body into his lap, wrapping his hands tightly around Steve's blood-soaked middle, pressing down as hard as he can against the wound. Steve doesn't react to his ministrations, merely flops against him, unresisting, his eyes stubbornly closed, his face slack and horribly pale in the harsh beam of his flashlight. "Steve, please!" he begs, his voice quavering tearfully in the pitch darkness.

"Detective Williams! We got him, Detective, you can let go now."

The small space around them is suddenly flooded with a myriad of lights, gentle, urgent hands pulling at the precious weight in his arms. Danny doesn't resist, lets them take him, and follows their hurried retreat in a rushed, stumbling stupor, a breathless mantra of "please, please, _**please**_, let him be okay," running over and over in his mind.

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The first time he surfaces the space around him is plunged in darkness and he thinks he's still in that parking structure, slowly bleeding out. Something is different, though. He is no longer curled up awkwardly on his side, no longer feels the loose bits of concrete digging into his skin. The surface underneath him is soft, cool. The smell – clean, excessively so: he can detect the distinct odor of antiseptic. _Hospital then._ _Safe._

He blinks, willing for his blurry gaze to grow accustomed to the surrounding blackness, and he is soon rewarded with the faint outlines of shadowy objects around him. One of them leans in closer, the vague contours taking on familiar features.

"D'nny?"

"Hey..." The bleary face grows clearer still, the pale blue eyes glistening softly in welcoming relief. "How're you feeling?"

He considers the question, takes a sluggish stock of his body. "...'m okay," he acknowledges, surprised. Because the sharp, breath-robbing pain is gone and there's a pleasant, drug-induced numbness in its stead. And then he remembers something else – another pair of eyes, night-dark and terrified, staring at him in the thickening twilight. It reawakens his own gut-wrenching worry, a desperate need to protect.

"Na..hele?" he gasps with the need to know.

Danny places a gentle hand on his shoulder, warm and grounding. "He's safe," comes the reassuring response. "The kid did great, Steve. Managed to put in a call while his dad was filling up the car. He gave us his location, told us where to find you." Danny sounds grateful and quite a bit impressed, and Steve can't help a surge of pride for the boy. Nahele kept his wits about him, managed to do what was needed to save himself and Steve. Hell, he's impressed, too. "We have his dad in custody now. It's over."

Steve blinks tiredly up at his friend, his eyelids growing heavier.

"You sleep now." Danny's hand shifts to rest on his cheek, and he lets his eyes slide closed completely, burrowing into the familiar, soothing touch. "There's someone who'll want to see you in the morning."

He follows the softly murmured advice without hesitation, easily slipping back into the healing waters of deep slumber, confident that his friend will be there to keep him from drowning.

When he surfaces next, the room is bathed in warm morning light. Danny snores softly in a chair beside him, half-propped against the bed, his head pillowed on his left arm, his right hand clasped securely around Steve's wrist, maintaining the connection even in his sleep. And there's another figure in the room, standing timidly at the foot of his bed, dark brown eyes watching him with a mixture of uncertainty and joy.

He smiles encouragingly at the boy, lifts the index finger of his free hand to his mouth, nodding at his sleeping partner. Nahele smiles back, a bit uncertain, and Steve waves him over, silently tapping a spot on the bed beside him.

"Thank you," he whispers, when the teen sits down slowly, taking care not to jostle the bed. Nahele frowns at him in confusion, and he holds out his hand, waiting for the boy to grasp it. "You saved my life," he clarifies, gently squeezing the smaller hand in his.

Nahele shrugs lightly. "You've been like a father to me," he whispers back, his gaze so earnest it makes something tingle warmly inside Steve's chest. "The only real family I got. I couldn't let you die."

Steve can't reply for the sudden tightening of his throat, blinks a bit wetly at the boy, who's looking back at him with equally wet eyes. The thing is, he feels the same way about Nahele. Has felt that way almost from the very moment he found the hungry, dirt-covered teen sitting in his office, awaiting punishment for stealing his car. God knows he's treated Nahele like a son ever since. _"Maybe," _he thinks, _"it's time I try to make it official..."_

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><p><em>So, obviously, it's not gonna go this way on the show, but I would still love to hear your thoughts. Reviews are food for the muse ;-)<em>


	35. 4x19 Tag Part II

**A/N I've been horrible with responses on the previous chapter, I'm sorry. (Holidays are always a crazy time.) You, guys, have been awesome in your comments, and I will do my best to respond to all of you soon. Thank you! xoxo**

**So here, finally, is the conclusion to the 4x19 tag.** **It... uh... morphed into something a bit different than what I had originally intended, but I hope it works the way it is. As always, I very much look forward to your comments!**

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><p><strong>4x19 tag. Part II<strong>

He should've known. Dammit, he should've known. He'd seen the way Steve doubled over during that coughing fit, the way his face twisted as if in pain, leeching of all color even under a thick coating of dust. He shouldn't have left him alone. Should've insisted on Steve going up first.

He suspected that something wasn't quite right with his friend. Now, as he watches the empty harness come back up only to be lowered into the shaft again with two firefighters in tow, he is certain of it.

He disentangles himself from Amber's fierce embrace, limps hurriedly back over to the rescue shaft. "What's going on?" he asks, scanning the tense, worried faces of his teammates.

"We don't–" Kono begins and stops as the radio of one of the rescuers crouching beside her crackles to life.

"_We're getting no breath sounds on this one, Chief."_

"Pulse?" the chief responds immediately, already waving over the EMTs.

_"Present, but barely," _comes the response, a half a minute hesitation – probably the time needed for the firefighter to check Steve's pulse – enough to raise Danny's panic level to full-blown. The next static-warped words that come over the radio throw that panic into overdrive.

_"The guy's losing a lot of blood, Chief. I'm literally standing in a puddle here. Looks like penetrating wound in the lower back. We need to get him out of here fast, but I don't know if it's safe to move him."_

"Got no choice there, Kowalski. Stabilize him the best you can and get him up here. We got EMTs waiting." The chief throws Danny a grimly sympathetic look and straightens out, ready to receive the harness.

And Danny? Danny wants to vomit. He feels that unpleasant clammy sensation take over his limbs, feels his breaths become more and more rapid as bile seizes his throat, feels the crescendoing roar of blood in his ears... And when he sees Steve's unconscious form being pulled slowly out of their concrete tomb, when he sees the blood that soaks the back of his partner's shirt, terrifyingly bright against the deathly pallor of his skin, Danny loses the struggle of holding himself together. He takes a large wobbly step toward the stretcher that Steve is being loaded on with undisguised urgency, sucks in a shaky, stifled breath and collapses in a senseless heap, his worry-wrought mind flickering out instantly, blanketed with merciful darkness.

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"You lied."

Steve blinks his eyes open sluggishly and frowns at a sea of cottony blue that fills his vision. It takes a moment for his brain to tune in, to recognize that what he's looking at is someone's hospital gown. A familiar someone's, if the voice he heard only moments ago wasn't only a figment of his cobwebbed mind. He can't tell for sure, though, because he appears to be lying on his stomach with the side of his head buried firmly within a crispy white pillowcase.

Frustrated by this limitation, he tries to raise his head to get a better look and his back seizes with unexpectedly sharp and breath-robbingly brutal stab of pain. His vision cracks and splinters into chaotic bursts of blindingly white light, his mouth opening in a silent scream as he fists the sheets underneath him, willing himself to stay conscious while he rides out the pain.

He hears a rustle of clothes beside him, feels a warm hand cover his own, another one cupping the back of his neck. "Don't move."

There's undisguised worry in the familiar chiding voice, and Steve nods pathetically when he can finally get his breath back. "Noted."

The pain releases him finally, and Steve opens his eyes again to find Danny crouching down before him, his face so _SO_ close now he has to blink to bring it in focus. Danny looks... worn is the best Steve can describe it. Sickly pale and tired. Like he hasn't slept in months. Like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. Like he aged years overnight.

"You look like hell..."

The observation slips out unbidden, and he winces in regret as Danny pulls away suddenly, his eyes dark with disapproval.

"Well, that's what happens when you have a lying, self-sacrificing idiot for a partner."

Steve hums pensively as he considers Danny's words. "Why do you keep calling me a liar?"

"Because there doesn't exist a universe, Steven, where having a lacerated kidney and a nicked artery can justify the diagnosis of 'I'm fine, I'll be right behind you'!" Danny snaps, his tone broadcasting equal amounts of frustration and fury. The uncharacteristically shaky hand cards through the tousled mop of blond hair, runs down the pale face. "You've lost so much blood... they... the doctors didn't think you were gonna make it, Steve."

Danny's voice shakes too, Steve feels like a heel for worrying him, for causing his friend to be stuck at his bedside instead of being out there enjoying his time with Amber.

"I'm sorry," he tries lamely.

It is, apparently, the wrong thing to say.

"Sorry?" Danny parrots, giving him an eye roll that makes Steve's head swim. "Sorry for what exactly, huh, Steve? For abandoning common sense in favor of impersonating a human wiffle ball? For lying to me about being hurt?"

Danny's hands begin slicing through the air again, reflecting his mounting agitation, and Steve closes his eyes against the dizziness of the motion.

"What good would your sorry be if one of those bomb fragments angled an inch to the right and sliced clean through your spine, leaving you a cripple at best, huh? What good would it have done any of us if you had bled out before even reaching the hospital?"

Steve swallows tightly, risks a careful glance at his friend. "I'm sorry for worrying you, Danny," he amends and insists stubbornly, "but I don't regret what I did. I would do it again... in a heartbeat."

"I bet you would." Danny scowls at him and straightens back out, leaving Steve to stare once again at his blue gown as he begins pacing back and forth in front of the bed. "You know, I could have been released two days ago already. I could have been sitting on a beach somewhere in Maui, sipping Mai Tai's with Amber, instead of being stuck here, waiting for your sorry ass to rejoin the world of the living."

The frustrated litany of words is a perfect echo of Steve's own self-recriminating thoughts, and he sighs with regret, closing his eyes once more as he gives up on the futile attempts to track his partner's furious movements. "You should be," he whispers tiredly. "Why aren't you?"

Danny stops pacing abruptly and Steve can feel the heat of his brother's gaze on him, heavy and intense. When Danny finally responds, however, it isn't with words of blame and disappointment that Steve expects. It's with a quietly acknowledged, "Because I lied, too."

The admission makes no sense, and Steve peels the heavy eyelids open again to stare dumbly at his friend. "What?"

"I lied," Danny reiterates as he steps closer to the bed and crouches down once again to end up virtually nose to nose with Steve, "when I said that I don't expect anything good in my life to last. I've had people lie to me, I've had my heart ripped out and stepped on. I've lost people I cared about, been tossed aside by people I thought cared about me. My mind always goes to the worst possible scenario because that's what I have taught myself to expect. Rachel, Gabby, Amber – doesn't matter who it is, I always prepare myself for it to be over. That way I don't get disappointed when the inevitable shit hits the fan."

Danny pauses, gives Steve an odd look that Steve can't quite decipher. "I've never felt this way about you," he asserts quietly, holding Steve's gaze. "In the four years we've known each other, I never expected you to betray me, to hurt me, to abandon me. If I ever needed you, you were always there, no matter what, and I know that you always will be. I always knew that, I think, I was just afraid to admit it out loud."

Danny trails off again, his lips quirking into an affectionately sad little smile, and Steve's breath hitches in surprise, his eyes opening just a bit wider as his partner's hand settles on his cheek with the kind of gentleness that makes his heart stutter in response.

"When we were in there you said...uh... you know, before you did the thing with the bomb, you said what you said..." Danny cuts off his nervous rambling, drops his gaze, suddenly becoming exceedingly interested in the rumpled fabric of the bed sheet. "I want you to know I feel the same way."

Steve blinks in confusion at his uncharacteristically uneasy friend, his mind scrambling to string together the scattered, broken memories of that day. When he does, when he finally remembers the exact words he had told his partner before lighting that fuse, his mouth falls open in disbelieving wonder.

"Ho...how's that... exactly?" he stammers, his throat dry, his breath bated with the need to believe and the fear of daring to do so.

Danny meets his gaze again, his face creasing in fond amusement. "You gonna make me say it?" he huffs. And then he's leaning in closer still, his breath tickling Steve's ear, his words making Steve's heart sing with pure, unrestrained joy. "I love you."

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><p><em>Ahem... yeah... so I decided the "I love you" scene deserved to be repeated here as well :)<em>


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N As some you know, I have retreated from writing a little while ago, closed up shop, so to speak. There were numerous reasons for it. Those of you I've spoken with privately know about them, and I'm not gonna bore the rest of you with the details. Let's just say, the reasons were there and the muse has definitely thrown in the towel and buried herself so deep that I hadn't heard a peep from her in months.**

**One amazing thing that happened to me during this hiatus, though, was that I somehow (by sheer dumb luck, I suppose) crossed paths with some incredible, wonderful individuals, who have not only offered me a patient ear and emotional support, but also managed to resuscitate and rouse the muse a bit. So much so that when the infamous 6x11 episode came out, she actually rallied enough (read: grew upset enough) to crawl back out and give me a story.**

**Now, the story below has nothing to do with the actual episode. I'm not gonna "poke the wound" by rehashing that particular disaster (my opinion, yes) and try to find a way to justify or explain Steve's behavior in it. I get that the writers and the show's frontrunner probably have some reason for doing things the way they are, that there is something else going on with our emotionally constipated SEAL, as some have suggested, and maybe it was PTSD, and maybe it was him dealing/not dealing with Catherine's leaving, or him being afraid of Danny leaving him, or something else entirely. The point is, whatever it is that's going on, the onus is on the writers to show/explain/justify it to us, not on us, fans, to sit there and wonder and try to explain to ourselves why, all of a sudden, characters that we have grown to love over the years are becoming something we can no longer recognize. I get that the show is only some 40 minutes without the commercials, and there isn't much time for the writers to go into all those underlying issues. I do. What I don't get is why, if the writers wanted to give us an episode that (as they touted it) would be heavy on bromance and would have Steve and Danny dealing with their issues (that the writers themselves have contrived for them) and reach a supposed breakthrough in their relationship, why then couldn't those writers actually give us an episode that focused on Steve and Danny, instead of spending most of those measly 40 minutes delving into an entertaining, yes, but wholly unnecessary backstory of an essentially minor character. That, I guess, was the biggest issue I had with the episode. I don't watch this show for Kamekona or Jerry or Grover or Nahele or whatever slew of other characters that somehow manage to steal most of the spotlight week after week. I like all those characters just fine, but I don't like them enough to have them take up most of the screen time. I don't like them enough to have Steve and Danny's relationship (the thing that drew me to 5-0, the thing that was always central to this show) downgraded to a supportive side-show status: some 15 scattered minutes of farcical fun with some occasional declarations of love and friendship thrown in for good measure (so as not to completely disappoint the fans). **

**That's not the show I fell in love with. That was ... disappointing. And I desperately needed a good fix of some whumpiness, angst and brotherly comfort. And this is how this story came out. And I owe huge thanks to KQ and Swifters for not only putting up with my doubts and worries over this story but giving me the confidence to (temporarily) come out of my hiding hole and post. Thank you, girls! Love you! xxx**

**So... without further ado (after this loooong A/N), here's my latest one-shot for this collection. I hope to hear your thoughts on it.**

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><p>Danny doesn't look up at first when the door to Anuenue Auto Repair – a long-abandoned mechanic shop that serves as a front for Tassone's operations – slides open and two of Tassone's men burst in, dragging someone between them. He remains where he is, sitting languidly on top of a rusted tool chest , his back against the wall, his hooded gaze kept disinterestedly on the floor before him. His attention is on high alert, though, and he listens intently as the men begin to speak.<p>

"We got ambushed, Boss," one of the men huffs out, his voice strained with effort and frustration. "The damn cops were waiting for us by the docks. Jackson and Logan are dead, and we barely made it out of there in one piece."

"And this?" Tassone steps forward, his burly, 200-pound form looming over his two henchmen, shielding the slumped figure between them from Danny's view.

"A 5-0 cop. Joey here wounded one of theirs, some young cop, and we were gonna take him hostage, bring him here, make him sing for you a bit, if you know what I mean. But then this one intervened. Wanted to trade himself for the kid, so we let him."

Danny hears the sound of a boot connecting with flesh, followed by a muffled grunt of pain, but he's no longer listening, no longer even registering anything for the loud roaring of blood in his ears. _"No,"_ he thinks, desperate, _"no, no, no..."_ He doesn't need to see who it is now. He knows. He just... knows. And he feels sick.

Steve had wanted to pull him out after he phoned in with the details on today's big drug shipment, but Danny had refused. Because if they had any hope of taking Tassone's burgeoning empire down for good, they needed more than a single intercepted cargo ship and they both knew it. Tassone's foothold on the island was still a bit shaky, the man's steadfast (and blatantly bigoted) refusal to take local "talent" into his employ making him somewhat of a pariah with local dealers. Yet his ruthlessness in dealing with his competition and anyone daring to challenge his business practices was rapidly propelling him further and further up the food chain. He needed to be stopped. The sooner the better. And Danny, being the local law enforcement's most "mainlandery" haole, was the logical choice to do it. Steve wasn't happy, but he'd agreed, albeit grudgingly, and so Danny remained undercover, watching, listening, waiting.

He was never worried about being found out. The cover they'd created for him was solid as was his disguise: a freshly shaved head, colored contacts that turned his eyes an unfamiliar hazel brown, a makeup scar across his left cheek and a couple of authentic-looking swirly prison tats on each bicep. He's also been careful, very careful. He's done this kind of thing before, knows all too well the dangers of undercover work, knows what to do to stay alive. So, no, he wasn't worried. Had dismissed his partner's undisguised concern for his person with a tongue-in-cheek reminder to watch his own back and let him, Danny, worry about his. But that right there was the problem, wasn't it. The two of them were meant to always watch each other's backs. Bad shit tended to happen when either one of them was left to fend for himself, without his partner to cover him. Like it did now. And as much as Danny would have loved to write it off as nothing more than coincidence, with so many of those "coincidences" happening to them whenever they are apart, he knows better.

He grits his teeth, forcing himself to focus, forcing the fear and the panic back down as he slides off the tool chest with an ease he does not feel and walks casually off to the side to get a better view. And instantly wishes he hadn't. Steve is on his knees, held there by two of Tassone's thugs, who seem to have already done their best to rough up the former SEAL. His vest is gone, his navy blue tee rumpled and stained with boot prints and dried blood. Blood is also trailing down his cheek from a deep gash above his right eyebrow, the area around it swollen and bruised.

He isn't looking Danny's way, keeping his gaze locked indifferently on Tassone's immaculately pressed dress pants, even though Danny's sure Steve's perfectly aware of his presence. He's right, of course. They both have to tread carefully now, can't afford to blow Danny's cover. Not yet, anyway. Because right now Danny has a chance to fix this, to figure out a way to get Steve and himself out of this mess. If Danny's caught, however, they are both screwed. So he plasters on an expression of detached curiosity, shoves his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking from curious eyes, and continues to watch, listen and wait.

"I know someone tipped you, pigs, off about my shipment." Tassone's heavy, tattooed arm swoops down toward Steve, thick fingers digging viciously into the short, dark hair, forcing the bowed head upwards. "I want to know who."

Steve blinks sluggishly at his tormentor, his gaze bleary and pain-glazed but defiant, as is the bloody sneer he gives in response. The Italian watches him angrily for another heartbeat or two, then releases his hair abruptly, raises his arm in the air and sideswipes him viciously across the face.

"TELL ME!"

Steve's head snaps sharply to the side, and he sways in place, even as his two stone-faced captors tighten their grip on his arms, keeping him from falling. He remains silent, however, save for a single grunt of pain that slips past the bloodied lips. That sound, soft as it is, serves as an impetus of sorts, a permission to let loose. And Tassone does. Heartily and with great relish, plowing his meaty, anvil-like fists into Steve's unresisting form over and over and over, until the man sags lifeless in his captors' grip, his head dropping weakly onto his chest.

Danny grits his teeth in helpless rage, uncurls his tightly closed fists, frowning at the sticky wetness he feels against his fingertips. _"Must have broken the skin there," _he thinks dully, forcing his gaze away from his friend's awkwardly slumped form. He can't show his emotions now. Can't afford to. Not now. Not yet.

Tassone steps back then, wipes his hands against his pants, throwing a disgusted look at the bloody streaks left behind on the expensive fabric.

"Wake him up," he orders gruffly, nodding at the rest of his gang, who are standing a respectful distance behind him, watching his every move.

One of the men beside Danny nods and runs off only to return a few minutes later with a bucket of water that he proceeds to dump onto Steve's head. The result isn't instantaneous, and Tassone snaps his fingers impatiently, nodding to his man to keep at it. He does, slapping the blood-covered cheeks until the former SEAL stirs feebly, his eyes fluttering open to pain-watered ocean-blue slits.

The Italian smiles his approval, motions for his man to step aside.

"Welcome back, pig," he sneers, the dark eyes glittering unkindly as they watch Steve claw his way back to full awareness. "Changed your mind yet about talking?"

Steve doesn't respond, but Tassone doesn't look to be too broken up about it. It seems he has expected as much. "No matter," he shrugs dismissively. "I got a better idea."

He winks malevolently at his captive and reaches into his waistband for a gun. "See, the only people on the island who knew about tonight's shipment are the folks in this room." He gestures at his remaining men, smirking at the way they stiffen at the dangerous insinuation.

"So the unfortunate conclusion I draw from this is that one of the men under _**my**_ employ is a snitch. It's a very disturbing notion, I'm sure you understand. A snitch is not someone I can afford to have in my organization." Slowly he runs the fingers of his other hand along the barrel of the gun, caressing the cold metal. "It would have been... _**nice**_ if you could help me identify that person, but seeing as you refuse..."

Tassone trails off, turning his attention toward his men. "Almost everyone here has been with me for years," he muses, the merciless dark eyes scanning the faces before him, and Danny tries not to flinch as their sharp, inquisitive gaze narrows assessingly on his person. "Except you, Edwards," he points out coldly, gritting out Danny's undercover alias, "... and you." He nods at a skinny pale-faced teen standing next to Danny and smiles unkindly as the kid shrinks visibly under the unwelcome attention.

"Come here, both of you," Tassone orders after a moment's consideration, and they comply, the ominous clicking of weapons from Tassone's loyal henchmen giving them little choice.

The teen slinks over first, blinking nervously at the weapon in his boss's hand. Tassone hands him the gun, points at Steve.

"Shoot him."

The kid's mouth works silently as he tries to process Tassone's words. This obviously isn't what he expected. Hell, it isn't what Danny expected either. Things have rapidly gone from bad to worse, and he is desperately trying to think of something... _**anything**_... to get out of this mess and–

BANG!

The retort of a gun is deafening, the sound bouncing hollowly within the sheet metal walls, and Danny watches in mute horror as Steve jerks backwards from the force of the bullet's impact, flopping limply onto the floor. Everything seems to come to a standstill then, the room closing in, blind panic whiting out everything around him except Steve and the slowly growing pool of blood that expands outwards from his motionless form. He can't tell where Steve's been hit. Can't see how bad it is. Can't tell if the man's still breathing. In all honestly, he isn't even sure he's breathing himself. He thinks he is. He must be, because he's pretty sure he's still standing upright, still alive, which means his lungs must be working, must be drawing oxygen in there somewhere. He just can't tell, can't feel it. His whole body feels numb.

And then the gun is placed in his hand, and he hears Tassone's strangely muffled voice, telling Joey and his companion to pick Steve back up off the floor. And vile, throat-clenching nausea pushes the numbness away.

"My young associate was a little more zealous than I anticipated," Tassone scoffs beside him, callous amusement coloring the man's voice, as he watches his men jerk Steve roughly up off the floor, gripping his shoulders to keep him in place as he wobbles unsteadily on his knees. "Thankfully, though, this little piggy is tenacious, so you get your chance to prove yourself after all. Go ahead."

Danny licks his lips, forcibly tears his gaze away from the dark stain that mars the front of Steve's shirt. His hand is shaking, he realizes with a start. _**He**_ is shaking. Trembling like a goddamn heroin addict before a fix. Dimly he is aware of Tassone's men moving closer, their weapons trained on him now, their intent clear: either he shoots Steve or they shoot him. His move, whatever he chooses, condemns them both.

Steve raises his head then, meeting Danny's gaze for the first time, and Danny nearly chokes at the look of calm acceptance in the dark-blue eyes, a silent permission, an apology for forcing him into this situation, for being used this way to make him choose.

It pisses Danny off. Because Danny's already made his decision, see. Steeled himself for it. Sent a mental goodbye and an apology to his kids. Because choosing between his own life and his brother's wasn't really a choice for him. Never could be. But seeing Steve accept the possibility of Danny choosing against him, knowing that Steve could even think for one minute that Danny would do that... well, it doesn't sit well with Danny. It angers him. A lot.

And Danny latches on to that anger, uses it to push back the almost crippling worry for his partner, to block out the annoying little voice in his head that cautions him about his virtually nonexistent odds for survival. And then he lunges for his friend, firing wildly as he goes.

The two men holding Steve drop like a rock, and Danny reaches his side just in time to prevent the SEAL from following suit. He doesn't really have time for gentleness, his element of surprise now all but obliterated, so he lets off another volley of shots that has the rest of Tassone's gang scrambling for cover, blocks out Steve's cry of pain as he pulls his partner roughly up by the arm and shoves him unceremoniously toward a lopsided stack of old car parts and tires piled up near the entrance to what used to be an office. And then he follows Steve's stumbling run, twisting his body to fire back at their pursuers.

Bullets ping noisily off the cement floor behind them, punctuating their wavering forward progress, and Danny lets out a muffled curse as a lucky projectile finds its mark, burning a fiery track across his ribs. He nearly loses his balance, but they've already reached the edge of the precariously stacked junk pile and Danny pushes Steve behind it, diving in after him.

The rest of the plan is pretty simple, really. Take a few precious seconds of rest to give them both a chance to catch their breaths, let off another volley of good, solid shots at Tassone's crew until his clip clicks empty, grab Steve and head for the nearby office that has thick, if a bit rusted, security bars on the window and the bonus of an equally rusted but still seemingly operational metal door they can hide out behind.

The first part of his plan works without a hitch, and he grins to himself as he hears shouts of agony from Tassone's men in response to his latest round of more or less precision fire and watches them pull back to avoid getting hit. Then he tosses the now useless gun and turns to help his partner back up on his feet. Only Steve isn't sitting beside him like Danny expected him to be. He's lying face down on the floor and Danny feels himself grow frigidly, terrifying cold at the sight of a fresh patch of dark crimson that stains the back of Steve's shirt near his left shoulder blade.

_"Shit... shit, shit, SHIT!"_

"Steve?" His voice breaks on the name, fear and desperation making him breathless, and his hand feels heavy and foreign as he reaches for his brother's throat, trembling fingers yearning to make contact, to feel the reassuring thump of a heartbeat underneath the skin.

A bullet buries itself in the worn rubber just above his head, and he startles, his fingers never reaching their intended target. Their time is up, they can't stay here any longer. And Danny wraps both hands around his partner, picks him up with a roared grunt of effort and throws them both desperately into the gaping opening of the office door – their salvation, an arm's length of open space ahead.

They make it. Danny isn't even sure how. Doesn't remember flopping painfully onto the floor, twisting his own body to shield his brother from the jarring impact. Doesn't remember scrambling from underneath Steve to get to the door, throwing all of his weight into forcing the rusted hinges to move. His mind refocuses only when he hears the click of the lock sliding into place and he lets go of the door to look back at his partner.

Steve's alive, he can tell that much. All the rough jostling Danny was forced to inflict on him must have wrenched the former SEAL back from the escape of unconsciousness, and Danny feels his own knees go weak with relief as he watches his friend shift ever so slowly, trying to push himself up off the floor. He goes to him then, his touch gentle now, atoning for his earlier necessary roughness.

"Easy, babe," he murmurs as he helps prop him carefully to lean against the wall, biting the inside of his cheek at the whimper of pain that escapes the injured man. "Easy."

His voice is nowhere near steady and his breath stutters wetly at the sight of blood, _Steve's blood_, that's now smeared all over his hands. He tries not to think about it, tries to focus on the fact that they are safe for the time being, that Tassone's men won't be able to break in here so easily, not any time soon, and by then maybe, just maybe, their backup will be here to get them out. He tries and he fails miserably, because Steve's face is pasty gray now underneath the bruises and the dried blood, and there's a thin line of unnaturally bright crimson red that wets his lips, a line that grows fuller with each labored, cough-broken breath he takes, until it begins to spill over at the edges, trickling down his chin in a morbid imitation of a sated vampire.

Danny can't tear his eyes away from it, can't force down the panic that squeezes his chest so tight he thinks his heart is going to burst under the pressure. A cold, trembling hand wraps around his wrist, startling him, and he jerks his head up, meeting his brother's feverish, unfocused gaze.

"Th're... comin'..." Steve's slurred out reassurance is barely audible above the din of voices and the pounding of fists on the other side of the door, but Danny hears him just fine and frowns in confusion as he tries to work out who his partner is referring to. Steve clears it up with his very next wheezed out words.

"GP...S ... I s...stuff'd my ... cell 'n m'boot... They know wh...wh'r..."

Steve trails off, his breath catching on a nasty cough that sprays forth a fine mist of red, leaving him breathless, and Danny shifts in closer, one hand cupping the cold, clammy cheek, his thumb gently skimming over his partner's lips to wipe away the blood.

"You did good, babe," he whispers, fighting to wrangle his raging emotions back under control. "You just take it easy now, okay? We'll be out of here soon."

Steve gives him a wan smile, an odd expression flickering across his face as he looks back at Danny.

"What? What is it, Steve?"

Steve shakes his head minutely, drops his gaze. "...s'nuth'n..."

Danny purses his lips in displeasure, surprised by the strange evasiveness. "No, no that wasn't nothing. I know 'nothing' and that wasn't it. So, come on," he urges, shifting his hand to gently grip his brother's chin, "out with it."

Steve huffs out a weak laugh that turns into another ragged cough, leaving Danny's hand coated with a fresh film of wet crimson. "I jus'...want'd t'...see your... f...face bef...f'r I..."

"My face?" he echoes, but Steve's already trailed off, exhausted by the effort, his head sagging onto his chest.

And Danny gets it, with a sudden, heart-clenching clarity and his throat closes up with a suffocating wave of despair and tears that burn his eyes, spilling unchecked down his cheeks. He can't deny Steve his wish, though, not if what he is dreading most should come to pass. He would never forgive himself. There isn't much he can do about his hair and he doesn't have any makeup remover on him to get rid of the fake tats and scar, but his eyes...

He wipes angrily at the traitorous tears, takes out his colored contacts and tosses them away viciously like poisonous snakes.

"Steve," he croaks out, placing both hands on the sides of his brother's face, gingerly forcing it up toward him. "Look at me, babe. Come on, look at me."

He waits with bated breath as the long dark eyelashes flutter softly like the wings of a frail butterfly, making a feeble but valiant attempt to obey his frantic request. And he can't help a wide, tremulous smile that stretches his lips when the pain-dulled cobalt blues drag open sluggishly to settle on his own.

There's a momentary flash of confusion in the dark blue depths, and then understanding dawns and the pale, blood-spattered lips twist into a small, grateful smile.

"Danny..." The whispered name is a susurration of relief, a murmur of breathless thanks, of regret-tinged longing. A heartbeat later the smile fades and Steve's eyes crinkle in silent apology before the fragile light in them dims and he slumps forward, his head thumping weakly into Danny's shoulder.

And Danny? Danny breaks. Right then and there. Chest heaving with harsh, throat-shredding breaths, he buries his face in Steve's hair, wraps his arms around his frighteningly motionless partner and roars his anguish in desperate, furious denial that streams in salty, heart-rending rivulets down his face.

H50* H50*H50

It takes a week, the seven longest days of Danny's life, before Steve's condition improves enough for the doctors to finally upgrade it to stable and start weaning him off the ventilator. It takes another two days until the stubborn bastard starts showing signs of waking.

Danny spends every single moment of those restless, nightmare-plagued days glued to Steve's bedside just so on Day 10 he gets to be there when those long dark eyelashes flutter open for the first time, gets to be the one to lean in close when his friend's bleary eyes seek purchase on something or someone familiar to ground him.

"Hey," he whispers, giving the hand he's been holding on to like a lifeline during all those days a light, reassuring squeeze. "Welcome back."

Steve blinks silently at him, his weary gaze riveted to Danny's face, tracing every line, every curve, until Danny feels his cheeks heat up from the intensity of it.

"You look... like a ...hedgehog," he croaks out finally, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

Danny huffs in put-upon annoyance, runs his free hand over the short, prickly buzz – a gradually fading reminder of his previously clean-shaven head.

"Really, Steven? You come within a hairbreadth of dying, shave decades off my life and sanity, and this is the first thing that comes out of your mouth? A comment on my appearance? Really? And a hedgehog? Seriously? Is there even such a thing as a blond hedgehog? Have you ever seen one?"

He stops abruptly, noting a tired smile that pulls at his partner's lips. The rant is familiar, safe, revitalizing. For both of them.

"Never seen one," Steve confirms breathily, his eyes slowly, inexorably sliding closed. "You're... one of a kind."

Steve trails off, sagging deeper into his pillow, missing a fond smile that Danny directs his way. And Danny waits another heartbeat or two until his brother's breathing evens out, and then he leans in closer still, pressing a chaste, grateful kiss on the man's temple.

"So are you, babe," he murmurs with heartfelt conviction above his brother's ear. "So are you."

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><p>FIN<p> 


	37. Healthy Shakes and Baby SEALs Part I

**A/N So... a little while ago this weird prompt bunny paid me a visit and left me with this bit of conversation to ponder: "Steve: I'm not a bloody child, Danny. Danny: I hate to be stating the obvious here, babe, but you kind of are." It was a very persistent prompt bunny, too. Insisted that I do something with it. So I fiddled and fiddled and fiddled and, well, here's the result. The story outgrew the boundaries of a one-shot and has, thus, earned itself a title. ****There's a bit of everything here: some humor, some whump, some comfort, and even some magic. I hope you enjoy. **

**Thank you to the amazing Swifters and KQ for beta'ing this little monster and assuring me that it wasn't too crazy to post! xoxo**

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><p><strong>Healthy Shakes and Baby SEALs. Part I <strong>

It all starts on a Wednesday. A seemingly harmless Wednesday that happened to fall on a government holiday, giving the 5-0 team a much appreciated and well-deserved day off. But, really, Danny should have known better: Wednesdays are cursed a priori thanks to goddamn Mickey Mouse Club and their "Anything Can Happen Day". He never expected this, however. Never in a million years.

He gets a call on his cell phone. An unknown number.

"Detective Williams? This is Makani Hale from the Puanani Health Foods Market. I don't know if you remember me..."

"Makani, yes." Of course, how could he forget? Steve practically lives at that place, what with his health food obsession and all. "How can I help you?"

There's hesitation on the other end, then, "You see, uh, Commander McGarrett came by yesterday night to... to pick up some spirulina powder and my mother was manning the store at the time and she thinks... she thinks she may have accidentally sold him the wrong powder."

"Wrong powder?" he asks, his brows knitting together in confusion, because a) he has no idea what the hell this "spirulina" is to begin with and b) he doesn't understand why the guy isn't calling Steve about it in the first place.

"It's a ... a youth elixir of sorts. My mother has been working on the formula for some time now. She had it prepared for another client of ours and she... well... her eyesight isn't what it used to be and she thinks she may have given the Commander that bottle."

"A... youth elixir," Danny echoes, confusion quickly giving way to incredulity and then, inevitably, amusement, because, _really_?

"Detective." Makani's voice holds a hint of reproach, a note of warning. "My mother is a Kahuna La'au Lapa'au*, her herbal magic is real."

Danny purses his lips, bites his tongue. He's made the mistake of ruffling local feathers once; he is not eager to repeat the experience. Doesn't think his car or his heart could take much more of that.

"My apologies," he says, trying his best to sound contrite, "but I still don't unders–"

"The potion was formulated specifically for another person's system, using their blood as a reactant. There's no telling what it would do to the system of someone it hasn't been designed for." Makani pauses, letting Danny digest the information, then adds quietly, "I've been trying to get a hold of him all morning, Detective, and his phone just keeps going directly to voicemail. I'm concerned that he may have already taken the potion, and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind checking–"

Danny doesn't wait for him to finish. He's already slipping on his loafers and grabbing the keys off the entryway table, and he's out the door seconds later, the phone shoved carelessly into the back pocket of his cutoffs.

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

There's a pile of clothes on Steve's couch. That's the first thing Danny sees when he bursts through the front door, yelling out Steve's name. A pile of clothes that, upon closer inspection, looks to be Steve's very own cargo pants and t-shirt, half-buried under a plaid wool blanket thrown haphazardly on top. Steve's slippahs are lying on the floor nearby in a careless, lopsided stack.

Danny takes a step closer to the couch, frowns apprehensively at a strange bulge in the center of that pile, virtually completely hidden under the blanket's spread, pokes it carefully with his index finger.

"Steve?"

And oofs in surprise as the bulge moves in response and something small and bony, wrapped loosely in Steve's pant leg, shoots out from under the blanket, catching him below the belt. In the next instant, the blanket gets tossed to the floor, the clothes pile shifts upwards, and Danny blinks stupidly at a bleary-eyed 12-year-old boy with dark, sleep-mussed hair, who's squinting up at him from Steve's couch, looking hopelessly lost amid the oversized bulk of Steve's clothes. He stares at the achingly familiar cobalt blue eyes staring sleepily back at him from an oddly youthful face, at the scrawny neck sticking out of the collar of Steve's shirt – wide enough to begin to slide off the kid's skinny shoulders, and he tries, really tries to rationalize the scene before him. But he can't, because it's too much, it's just too much, and he feels the ridiculousness of this bubble up inside him until he can contain it no longer... And then he's down. Folded over on his knees, arms wrapped around his midsection, as he howls with breath-choking laughter.

"Danny?"

The kid sounds a mixture of annoyance and confusion, his smooth face reflecting McGarrett's signature aneurysm look. The contrast between the form and substance is so jarringly hilarious that Danny feels tears spill forth from his eyes as his laughter transforms into a series of hysterical, breathless squeals.

"I'm s...sorry, babe... I'm... sorry," he wheezes, fighting for control in the face of his partner's (and he has to struggle against another guffaw of laughter at the thought of referring to this mini-version of Steve like that) growing frustration.

He wants to say more, but Steve (and, dear God, this is Steve, and how is he supposed to deal with this?) chooses that moment to look down at himself and the look of sheer horror on his unnaturally pale face cuts Danny's laughter short.

"Danny?" And there's fear that underscores the confusion in his unfamiliarly young voice now. "What the hell? What's... what's happening to me?"

And all Danny sees is a scared little kid, lost and confused, and his fatherly instincts kick in with a vengeance. He's up and off the floor in the next breath, grabbing for the shoulder that's hiding underneath the five-sizes-too-big shirt.

"Steve, hey, babe, it's okay," he gets out in a rush, trying not to cringe at the way Steve jerks away from him as if burned. "It must be that powder Makani's old lady sold you."

Steve blinks at him, his face flushed, blue eyes dark and narrowed in suspicion. "Makani's old... How do you know about that?"

"He called me a few minutes ago. Frantic, because he couldn't get a hold of you. Apparently, his mother sold you the wrong powder for that crazy green-colored sludge you like to drink. A youth elixir of sorts instead of that spirally thingy."

"Spirulina," Steve corrects automatically, staring numbly at his own shrunken limbs. There's such shocked vulnerability in his features that Danny feels another pang of pity that has him reaching for his partner again.

Steve doesn't pull away this time, letting Danny's hand linger on his shoulder.

"I remember getting a weird feeling after I drank it," Steve murmurs, blinking dazedly against the memory. "Woozy... and my head hurt. I... I went to lie down. I must have fallen asleep, I..." He turns back to Danny as if expecting him to supply the rest of the information, to explain whatever hocus-pocus shit that went on during his drug-induced nap. There's childlike pleading and bewilderment in the dark blue eyes, and Danny can't take it. Can't deal with this level of vulnerability in his normally brick-wall-dense partner.

Obeying a sudden, overwhelming impulse, he wraps both arms around the stiff, skinny shoulders, pulling the boy against his chest, and promises hotly and with conviction, "You and I, we're gonna drive over to that health-nut place you love so much and we're gonna have Makani fix this. It's all gonna be alright. Alright?"

He feels Steve nod against him, hears a murmur of words muffled by the fabric of his shirt. "What did you say?"

Steve leans back a bit, glares up at him with an oddly irked expression. "Clothes, Danny," he repeats with deliberate slowness, tugging at the collar of his oversized shirt for emphasis. "I need different clothes."

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

Things don't go as Danny had planned. No surprise there, really. They rarely ever do. Still, he can't hide his disappointment as he slides back behind the wheel of his Camaro with his still very much underage partner beside him in the passenger seat. Although, he imagines Steve's disappointment has gotta run a whole lot deeper than his. Judging by the deep scowl lining his partner's overly youthful features, Danny isn't wrong.

"It's not so bad," he tries lamely, pulling out into traffic to head back toward McGarrett's home.

Steve tugs angrily at the hem of his pale-gray cargo shorts that Danny bought for him along with an "I heart baby seals" t-shirt with a picture of a cute white baby seal against a gray background. Steve had given him the death glare for it and refused to talk to him for a long time after. Needless to say, none of those things did anything to dampen Danny's amusement at watching the formerly big bad Navy SEAL wear the shirt.

"How do you figure?"

It's the first time Steve has spoken to him directly since donning the shirt, and even though he still sounds pissed, Danny counts it as progress.

"Well, she is going to fix it," he points out, one hand letting go of the wheel to gesture at his sulking partner. "It's just going to take her a bit longer than we thought."

Makani's mother had dragged Steve into a little room in the back of the store the moment they showed up and Steve came back out a good twenty minutes later, wearing a neon-colored bandage in the crook of his arm and an even deeper scowl on his face. Kehaulani Hale had taken his blood sample, it turned out, and told him to be patient – the potion to counteract the effects of her youth elixir should be ready in a couple of days. It wasn't something either of them was prepared to hear, but there wasn't a choice. Potion-making was a delicate thing, they were told. She needed time to get it right, hurrying would not do.

"Two days, Danny," Steve grinds out, glaring at the neon bandage as if it were his mortal enemy. "How the hell am I supposed to stay like this for two goddamn days?"

"Well, look on the bright side, babe," Danny counters easily, fighting back an impish smirk. "At least you're tall enough to not need a car seat."

The answering punch to his arm is brutal enough to make him swerve.

* * *

><p><em>TBC Whump's coming, no worries. In the meantime, please, drop me a review and let me know what you think of the story so far (the muse likes her chocolates ;-)).<em>


	38. Healthy Shakes and Baby SEALs Part II

**A/N Thank you for such a generous welcome to this slightly unusual story! Humor is definitely not something I'm comfortable writing, so I'm thrilled to hear that you, guys, enjoyed part 1 and even found it funny :)**

**Now then, we've had our bit of fun, time for me to get back to what I like best and what this story collection is all about, right? Mwahaha**

**Hope you enjoy part 2 of this installment. As always, I'm anxious to hear your thoughts!**

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><p>"I'm still your boss, Williams!" The slightly high-pitched bark of indignation bounces angrily between the glassed walls of Steve's office, and Danny cringes at the worried looks he sees Chin and Kono throwing their way from the safety of the common area. It should be funny having this particular conversation (a conversation that has rapidly devolved into a shouting match) with his suddenly diminutive boss, and yet it isn't. Stopped being so about 30 minutes ago, after they received a tip on the location of a group of low-level punks that have been terrorizing the communities along the North Shore for the past two weeks and Steve, being Steve, began insisting on taking charge of the raid.<p>

"Look," he begins softly, raising his arms out to the sides in a submissive, placating gesture. Because Steve is looking very much like a pissed off wolf cub who's about to launch himself at Danny and attempt to rip out his throat. "Look... I get that you're upset, okay. I get that this whole... _**situation**_ is freaking you out. Hell, we're all a little freaked out here." And ain't that the truth. Chin, the eternal Zen master, took it all in stride, nodding in sage understanding at Danny's somewhat jumbled explanation. Kono, on the other hand, wasn't quite so composed, despite her island upbringing, and her poorly suppressed giggles in response to Danny's assertion that the "little cutie" was, in fact, her scary, roof-hopping boss, that morphed into a rapid-fire of contrite apologies at the murderous look on Steve's face, did nothing to improve Steve's mood. "But you... you gotta look at this rationally, babe. You–"

"Stop. Patronizing. Me." The ground out words are harsh despite the unnaturally youthful timbre, the small hands curling into tight, white-knuckled fists. "Stop talking to me like I'm a child. I'm not a bloody child, Danny!"

Danny blows out a heavy sigh, shaking his head at the fuming 12-year-old standing before him. "I hate to be stating the obvious here, babe, but you kind of are."

He knows, as soon as the words leave his mouth, that this is the wrong thing to say. Steve's eyes darken dangerously, small hands twitching at his sides, and it's all the warning Danny gets before a heavy marble pen holder sails with furious precision toward his head.

"Shit," slips out unbidden, and Danny ducks at the last minute, wincing as the marble block slams into the door behind him, shattering the glass. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Chin and Kono moving in closer, can hear their raised voices as they inquire repeatedly if everything's alright.

He doesn't answer them. Can't answer them. Because, obviously, everything's not alright. Everything's as far from alright as it can possibly get and Danny has no idea how to fix it, because this thing he's been dealing with over the past few hours doesn't make even a remote amount of sense. It ain't normal. It shouldn't even be real. And yet it is. As real as this goddamn pen holder that Steve nearly brained him with. _Steve... Dear God, Steve..._

"Steve..."

But Steve's already turned away from him and is standing with his back toward him, small shoulders sagging in defeat. "You're right, Danny," he says, his voice dull and terrifyingly emotionless. "I can't go out there like... like this. Not on a raid. I'm not... I'm... I'll stay here. Man the... _**phones**__._"

There's a hollow, disgusted chuckle that follows the words, and Danny feels his heart clench in sympathy.

"Steve... babe, I-"

"Just go, Danny," Steve interrupts him wearily, never bothering to turn back around. "Go."

The crunching of broken glass underneath his feet is the only sound that follows Danny out the door.

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

A loud screech of tires draws him to the window and he peeks outside, frowning down at two black SUVs that had just pulled up to a rubber-smoking stop in front of the Palace. His expression switches to one of alarm as he sees eight heavily armed men get out of the cars and head with brazen purpose toward the main entrance. But it's the glimpse of the face of one of those men that sends him running off to the common area, grabbing his phone on the way.

His call connects just as a loud burst of gunfire echoes loudly through the downstairs lobby. There's responding gunfire and shouts of pain, and he grits his teeth in silent anguish, cursing his current state. If he were himself, he could have done something, could have evened the odds before Danny and the rest of the team got back. But now he's barely strong enough to hold his gun steady post recoil. He doesn't stand a chance against eight armed thugs, and he knows it.

"Danny," he shout-whispers, the phone pressed against his ear as he works his fingers frantically over the Smart Table, "tell everyone to turn around and get back to the Palace ASAP. Gabriel's here."

He hears Danny's hiss of surprise, a frustrated bark of a curse. "Yeah," he agrees, his concentration fully on the task at hand. "The tip must have been a diversion to get 5-0 out of the headquarters. My guess is he's coming after our files. I'm gonna do my best to block him from accessing the system, but..." He smiles fondly at Danny's worried interruption, gives a tight (if unseen) nod, "Yes, _Dad_, I'll be careful. Just get here quick."

He just has time to put in the final keystrokes when the door behind him bursts open and a rough voice orders him to get away from the table and turn around. He stiffens but does as he's told and glares at the intruders, hands shoved in the pockets of his brand new cargo shorts.

"What were you doing there, kid?" Gabriel asks, stepping closer toward him, his weapon lowered a bit as he assesses who stands before him.

Steve tries his best to look nonchalant. "Just playing," he says with a shrug, feigning complete innocence.

Gabriel's eyes narrow at that, his gaze boring into Steve's. There's distrust and suspicion in the pale, hazel eyes and a strong, unsated lust for a kill. There is no doubt in Steve's mind that this man won't hesitate to pull the trigger if things don't go his way. He's not afraid, though. He's still a highly trained Navy SEAL, even if he is locked inside the body of a twelve-year-old. He still got the moves. He can take care of himself until Danny gets here. He knows he can.

"Check it out," Gabriel orders, motioning sharply to one of his men – a skinny, pale-skinned haole with a crudely shaved head, bristle-covered cheeks and thick, horn-rimmed glasses. _Hacker_, Steve thinks distantly, as he watches the guy slither over to the Smart Table and splay out his fingers over the keys with an air of bored proficiency.

"The system's locked," he says moments later, turning briefly to face his boss.

"Well, unlock it then," Gabriel snaps back as if it should be the obvious course of action.

"I've been trying to," the hacker objects, sounding just a tad offended, "but whatever encryption they used, it's some serious shit, Boss. Like classified military documents serious."

Gabriel's cheek twitches in frustration and he shoots Steve a sharp, penetrating look, to which Steve responds with an "I haven't the faintest idea what he's talking about" shrug.

It's the hacker that unexpectedly comes to his defense, though, with a confidently dismissive, "He's just a fucking kid, Boss. Ain't no way he could've done it."

"This kid knows more than you think," Gabriel scowls before turning back to his man. "Can you get in?"

The hacker shrugs, glancing back down at the table. He looks unsure for a moment, and Steve allows himself a small smile of triumphant satisfaction at the thought. Still, disappointing Gabriel Waincroft can be extremely dangerous for one's health, and the hacker knows it. "Yeah," he decides finally, giving himself a nod of encouragement. "But it'll take me some time."

"Do it, we've got time," Gabriel dismisses him with a wave of his hand, taking a large, threatening step in Steve's direction. "Who are you, kid?" he asks, head cocked, the eerily pale eyes narrowing at him, razor sharp. "I know you heard the gunshots downstairs, why didn't you run?"

Steve shrugs again, flicks a gaze of affected indifference over to the six armed goons behind Gabriel. "I thought it was a car backfiring," he offers cheekily.

Gabriel doesn't appreciate cheekiness. The pale, heavily muscled arm swings sharply through the air, the metal handle of the gun wrapped in a tight grip of its thick fingers slamming brutally against Steve's temple. Steve crumples, limp and floppy like a ragdoll, his awareness splintering momentarily into blinding, pain-ridden shards.

He's jerked back up moments later. Roughly, by the arm. And held forcibly upright, his head drooping weakly as he fights to stay awake against the nauseating, pulsating throbs.

"Don't be smart with me, kid," Gabriel's voice hisses above his ear, strangely muffled. A hand, Gabriel's he assumes, clenches his shoulder, fingers digging into his skin deep enough to hurt. "If you think for one minute that I will hesitate to shoot you just because you ain't old enough to grow some chin hair, you're dead wrong, kid. You got it?"

The hand shakes him hard, his head jerking sharply back and forth with the force of the movement, and he can't hold back a small whimper as pain explodes inside his skull with renewed viciousness. Something wet slips out from under his tightly squeezed eyelashes and trickles down his cheeks, mixing with the sticky warmth of blood that he feels gushing down the side of his face. It's embarrassing, and he feels himself grow hot with shame at the thought of crying in front of this murdering scumbag, but he can't help himself. It shouldn't but, for some reason, it hurts just too, _**TOO**_ much.

Unexplainably, he's released an instant later, and he drops back down, landing on all fours as he tries desperately to reorient himself. It takes a while, but his senses finally begin to clear and he nearly laughs with joy as he hears a distant wail of police sirens that carries toward them from outside, growing louder and stronger with every second. _Danny..._

Shakily he raises one hand to his face to wipe off the blood and the tears, squints blearily at the fuzzy kaleidoscope of colors and shapes before him. Until it all slides gradually into focus and he can see Gabriel standing by the office window, looking outside, his face twisted into a mask of poorly controlled rage. And he smirks despite the pain and the dizziness, because this? It was definitely worth it.

"Problem?" he rasps out, his lips stretched further in a caustic smile.

Gabriel strides back toward him then, swift and furious, and for a brief moment Steve thinks he's gonna hit him again, but the man seems to have changed his mind. The cold, hate-filled eyes slide down from Steve's face to the bulge of the phone in the front pocket of his cargos, narrowing with a flash of an idea, and Steve barely has time to blink before his phone is yanked out of his pocket, his loud squeak of protest ignored.

"Danny Williams," Gabriel drawls out, as he pulls up the call log, and his eyes take on an almost predatory glint. "I knew you were tied to those damn 5-0 cops somehow. I wonder how much they'll be willing to give up to get you back in one piece."

He hits the call button, puts the phone to his ear, his expression smug. "Detective Williams," he all but purrs the instant the call connects, "I believe I have someone here that belongs to you. Given our current predicament, I am perfectly willing to return him to you in exchange for a safe passage out of the building."

He listens silently for a few beats, his full lips pleated in a malevolent sneer. "You know who I am, Detective. You know what I am capable of. I have enough firepower with me to make this interesting. Let me demonstrate."

Gabriel puts the phone on speaker, motions to his thugs, nodding in the direction of the Smart Table, and in the next instant the world around Steve erupts in a deafening salvo of gunfire, crackling electricity and exploding glass. He slams his eyes shut, the pain in his head crescendoing from the deafening noise, and he doesn't immediately realize that the gunfire has stopped. Not until he hears Danny's distant worried pleas to stop and Gabriel's coolly indifferent response, "Did you hear enough, Detective? If you do not back off and let us leave, your little friend here is gonna suffer the same fate as your fancy computer table. The choice is yours."

Whatever Danny says to that must satisfy Gabriel, for Steve can hear his pleased chuckle that follows a smugly acknowledged, "You've made the right choice, Detective." And then he's hauled up off the floor and shoved unceremoniously toward the exit doors, his heart sinking at the knowledge that Danny is being forced to let this monster go... because of _**him**_.

The afternoon sun is hot and blinding against the dizzying kaleidoscope of lights and the sizzling blackness of the pavement, the air thick with tension that threatens to swallow him whole. He staggers forward, Gabriel's hand clasped firmly around his shoulder, the barrel of a gun digging painfully into his back. His head is pounding in rhythm with his heart, and the added confusion of heat and flashing lights makes it hard for him to see, the world around him blurring momentarily into a jumbled, disorienting haze.

He blinks furiously, trying to clear his vision, and there's Danny, standing some ten feet away, his weapon lowered, his face scrunched up with a distressing mixture of worry and intense, powerless fury. Steve knows that last bit isn't directed at him. Still, he can't help feeling like it's his fault somehow, that he's let his friend down. He should've figured this out faster, should've realized that something was off with that tip they were given. It was too nice, too... convenient. He had felt it, too. That's why he had been insisting on coming along. But he hadn't been forceful enough, hadn't tried hard enough. And he hadn't done anything to stop these guys from taking control, only ended up making a bad situation worse.

A hard shove sends him stumbling forward, breaking up his self-reproaching thoughts. He lands hard on one knee, scraping the bare skin, plants one hand on the ground beside him to keep himself from falling flat on his face. A quick, incredulous look behind him confirms what he had already suspected: Gabriel's men are busy climbing back inside the two vehicles, Gabriel himself motioning for him to keep walking, the gun still trained with deadly precision on his back.

It's over just like that. Steve knows no one on his team or from the HPD will dare open fire until he's out of danger. Gabriel and his men get to leave scot-free, despite all the havoc they've wreaked here, despite the lives they've taken. The thought makes him sick to his stomach. He clenches his teeth, glares hatefully at the smug, moonfaced bastard, and picks himself back up off the ground. Gabriel is still only inches away from him. He can still surprise him, can jump the man, go for his gun. It might give Danny and the others the chance to get this bastard, to fill him up with a few pounds of lead.

Gabriel watches him steadily, his gaze hard, intense. Something flickers across his face, a twitch, a flare of malice, and the self-assured smirk disappears, replaced by a cold, deadly mask.

"Move, kid." And the gun rises dangerously, its intent clear. "Turn around and start walking."

He hesitates still, and it is Danny's voice, strained and quiet, that draws him away. "Come on, babe. Please."

Steve nods in resignation, turns back to walk toward his friend. Danny watches him nervously, arms outstretched toward him, like he can't wait to get him close, to get him clear of the danger, and Steve feels like a heel for worrying him. He shakes his head minutely in a poor excuse of an apology, takes a large, determined step in Danny's direction.

And that one step is as far as he gets.

A sharp bark of a single gunshot cuts across the crowded parking lot, and something slams hard into his back, shoving him forward. A stab of piercing pain rips through him, back to front, and he staggers and chokes in surprise, as his chest explodes outward in a sickeningly bright spray of red. The force of the momentum careens him downward, toward the boot-scuffed, sun-baked pavement. But he never reaches it, never falls. Instead, a pair of familiar arms wraps tight around him, cocooning him, easing him gently down against a safe, solid warmth.

There's pressure then, hard and unrelenting, pushing down on his chest and back, and he mewls plaintively, because it hurts. It hurts so much. And he must have said it out loud, because he suddenly hears a soft, apologetic, "I know, babe, I know, I'm sorry, it's okay, it's all gonna be okay," that floats above his ear, cutting through the thundering roar of blood that drowns out everything around him, and he feels a brush of dry lips across his temple.

The voice, Danny's, sounds strained and watery somehow, and he feels the arms around him – normally so sure, so steady – tremble with tension that thrums through his friend. It is a strange sensation, and he tries to seek out the reason for it, peels open his eyelids that seem to have grown lead-heavy, and sees fear – painted stark and raw across his partner's face, darkening the brilliant sky blue of his eyes. It's a strange sight to see. It makes him uncomfortable.

"D'nny...," he rasps weakly, grasping at the hand that presses viciously on his chest, as he tries to reassure his friend. But his breath rattles noisily in his chest and from his half-propped position he can see the bubbles of blood burble under his friend's fingers with every labored wheeze he makes, and he knows. He just... knows.

He looks back up at his partner, meets his anguished gaze with a wan, resigned smile. "...s'okay," he soothes, "...always knew I'd... die... young..." He huffs out a laugh that catches on something in his throat, shifts and tears forward in a gush of warm, coppery flow that cuts off the rest of his words, leaving him breathless. Danny's eyes – anguished and waterlogged and blue, _so blue_ – fill his wavering vision, flicker intermittently in the ever-darkening haze that slowly surrounds him, gradually dragging him under. He is too weak to fight it, but he holds on to those eyes, grasping at them like to a lifeline, until they melt away into the ravenous blackness.

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><p><em>TBC So... yeah... Before you yell at me, there's going to be a part 3 (runs and hides)<em>


	39. Healthy Shakes and Baby SEALs Part III

**A/N Here's the conclusion. It may not answer all of your questions, but hopefully the resolution is to everyone's satisfaction. (Do keep in mind the modus operandi for this series - plotless whump ;-))**

**As always, I'm looking forward to your thoughts. Pretty please :)**

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><p>His hands shake uncontrollably and he tightens them harder around the wheel, his knuckles turning white. The images in his head follow one another with cruel persistence, repeating over and over again until all he wants to do is bang his head against the smooth microfiber and scream.<p>

_Steve, pale and dazed, the right side of his face coated with blood that continues to trickle down from a nasty gash above his eyebrow. _

_Gabriel's heavy hand on Steve's shoulder – so painfully, so terrifyingly large against his small, fragile frame. _

_That same hand cruelly, traitorously pulling the trigger just as Steve takes a slow, reluctant step toward him, toward safety. _

_The warm, sickly bubble of Steve's blood underneath his numb fingers as his friend's scrawny chest shudders with labored, dying breaths._

_The cold, comfortless waiting room. Kono's hands wrapped tightly around his own shivering frame, her tears dampening the back of his shirt._

_His own hands, stained bright, stomach-churning red._

_The surgeon's face, grim and hopeless, his soft, apologetic words – a merciless verdict. "The bullet caused too much damage. ... He's too small... Blood loss is too great... We've made him comfortable. ...It won't be long."_

_"It won't be long..."_

He had bolted from the hospital then, unable to hear any more. He felt sick. Scalding hot and frigidly cold at the same time. He needed to get out, to get away. To not _hear _this anymore, to not _see_, to not _know_. Because he couldn't know, couldn't see. Because that would make it real, make it true. And he couldn't have that. He just couldn't. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't fair. It was all wrong. And it was all his fault: he couldn't protect his partner, couldn't keep him safe.

He sniffles loudly, his vision swimming with welling tears. He blinks furiously, but doesn't bother to wipe them away, can't risk taking his hand off the wheel, not at the speed that he's going. And he can't slow down either, now that he has a destination in mind. The idea – desperate and ridiculously obvious – came to him after several minutes of blind, aimless driving, and he swung the car around that same instant, rubber squealing as he hurried toward his new goal. A tiny sliver of hope. His partner's only, albeit miniscule, chance.

Lights flashing and siren blaring, he arrives at the Puanani Health Foods Market ten minutes later – a record by any standards, and all but breaks down the door in his hurry to rush into the store.

"I need that potion," he blurts out as soon as he reaches the counter, the ominous rattle of the glass door slamming into place behind him accompanying his words. "Now!"

Makani looks up at the noise, his gaze widening in alarm as it trails down Danny's clothing, and Danny cringes as he realizes for the first time how he must look. He hasn't bothered with a change of clothes. Couldn't bear the thought of moving even an inch away from the closed OR doors, while his partner was behind them fighting for his life. And once Steve's surgeon came out and pulled the threadbare rug of hope from under his feet, the thought of changing his clothes was the farthest thing from Danny's mind.

"Detective, are you–"

"I'm fine," he cuts Makani off, swallowing painfully against a parchment-dry throat. "But I need that potion, Makani. Is it ready?"

The Hawaiian hesitates. "It's..." He flicks his gaze over to the back room. A part of the beaded bamboo curtain that separates it from the rest of the store has snagged on a chair that stands just beyond the doorway , and Danny can see the hunched over silhouette of Makani's mother as she fiddles with a small something on a scuffed up wooden table before her.

Kehaulani Hale looks back at them, as if sensing his gaze, straightens out from her half-bent pose, picks up the something she was working with and walks toward them in her slow, shuffling gait.

"Not quite ready," she says, shaking her head, as she shows him a small amber glass vial she's got clasped in her wrinkled hand. "I just finished mixing the 'apu. Not tested yet. You tell Commander – wait for kakahiaka, tomorrow morning."

Instead of a response, Danny vaults over the counter, overcome with McGarrett-like surge of temporary insanity, and grabs rudely for the vial.

"I can't wait," he grinds out, fighting against Makani's hampering arms as the taller man pushes him back to intervene on behalf of his mother. "My partner can't wait. I need this now!"

"You don't understand, Detective," Makani huffs out above his ear as he struggles to maintain the distance between Danny and the now very irate-looking kahuna. "An untested potion is very dangerous, too dangerous. It can make things worse instead of better, it can..."

He looks back at his mother again, as if asking for support, and the old woman obliges with a firm, "If Commander takes the 'apu now, he could die."

There's more that she wants to say, her hands rising in agitation as she prepares for a longer speech. Danny cuts her short.

"He's dying now!" he roars, the unexpected delay making him nauseous with ever-mounting worry. "He's dying of a bullet wound, because his body is too small and fragile to handle the damage. And he shouldn't... he's a grown man. A strong, healthy man. He isn't..." Danny sags back against the counter, out of breath and out of words. "Please..."

There's a moment of tense silence as they watch him carefully, thinking, gauging, analyzing. And then the vial is placed gently into his sweating palm.

H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50*H50

There's a heaviness in his body, strange and pervasive. It spreads through his entire being, limb to limb. Makes it impossible to move.

He tries anyway. He's stubborn that way. Besides, he knows somehow that it's important; that he needs to push himself, no matter how difficult it might be; that someone's waiting for him to do just that.

It's like trying to swim in a swamp, and he feels himself tremble with effort. But he does it. He twitches. He moves. He knows it is so, because in the next instant he feels the warmth of a hand press against his cheek and a familiar, oddly strained voice whispers above his ear, "Steve? Are you with me now, babe? Steve?"

_Danny..._ His partner sounds equal parts worried and exhausted, and for the life of him Steve can't figure out why. Until his memory catches up with him, and he gasps with remembered horror, fighting to peel his eyes open.

A second hand grips his shoulder then, solid and steadying. "Easy. You're alright. Everything's alright."

The sky blue eyes are inches away from him when he finally manages to unglue his eyelids. They appear tired, but they crinkle with pure joy as they gaze down into his. "Hey there. Welcome back."

He blinks in response, his brow furrowing as he struggles to get his mouth working to voice the question that's been eating away at his now conscious mind.

Danny understands. Reads it on his face as he always does. "You really are back, Steven. All six plus feet of you. And I never thought I'd say this, but I have missed getting a crick in my neck looking up at you, babe."

He smiles, lets his eyes dip slightly in relief. "Ma...kani?" he rasps weakly.

Danny nods. "His mom did her magic voodoo thing and got you your proper, hard-earned years back. They were both very apologetic," he adds, gesturing at the bedside table. "Came by this morning with a whole bunch of herbs and ointments."

Steve follows his partner's movement, frowns at the assortment of vials, plastic bottles and herb pouches that line the surface of the small table.

"I think they got everything in here from curing warts to doubling your sexual potency," Danny jokes, pulling Steve's gaze back toward him. "Makani also said to tell you that he is giving you a full year credit for any future purchases of your healthy smoothie ingredients and his mother promised free herbal consults should you require any."

Steve digests the offer in silence, licks his parched lips and murmurs raspily around the ice chip that Danny slides carefully into his mouth, "Think I'm gonna... lay off healthy shakes for a while..."

The corners of Danny's lips dip as he nods, his eyes crinkling in amusement. "Understandable. I got a bag of malasadas here if you're ready to ditch the wagon completely."

Steve snorts at that, managing to shake his head minutely in denial. "Still like my arteries, Danno."

"Suit yourself." Danny shrugs nonchalantly, his hand sliding down to wrap around Steve's own. And Steve responds, curling his fingers tightly around the calloused skin.

"Thanks, brother." And it has nothing to do with malasadas.

"Anytime, babe." And neither does that.

* * *

><p><strong>END<strong>


	40. A Hawaiian Summer Pt1: The Welcome Mat

**A/N Well, I've been craving some good bromance and whumpage lately, and the show being so exceptionally sparing in that regard lately, I decided to fill the gap myself :) This story idea has been circling around my brain for a while and the muse finally decided it was time to play with it.**

**It's an AU, a teen AU, to be precise :) But still very much in keeping with the overall theme of this collection and still, hopefully, in character. The story is a 3-parter (it grew a bit longer than I had anticipated), and it is finished pending my lovely beta's say so ;-) **

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>A Hawaiian Summer. Pt. 1: The Welcome Mat<strong>

"Pee-yew! Do you, guys, smell that?"

The voice, mocking and deliberately loud, rings out behind him as he passes a group of teens sitting at a picnic table. Danny stiffens in spite of himself. He's dealt with enough bullies back in Hoboken thanks to his vertical handicap, as his dad lovingly puts it, so this voice, this jeering tone – he's pretty familiar with it. He's heard it enough times, made enough of those sneering jokers choke on their own words. Bullies are bullies, he supposes, be they on the streets of Hoboken or on the beaches of Oahu. And Danny Williams has never kowtowed to a bully, no matter the odds. It was one of the reasons his dad shipped him off to this tropical hellhole for the summer, in the naive hope that the laid-back, easygoing island life would make him less uptight. Obviously, the plan didn't work, and even now Danny can feel his fingers curl into fists on their own accord, itching for some action.

He turns to glare at the speaker – a chubby, pimple-faced Hawaiian native with a baseball cap pulled backwards over his short-cropped dark hair. The other six teens at the table – the chubby one's entourage from the looks of it – are all Hawaiian as well, and Danny reads open hostility in their disdainful stares.

"Bruddahs, I do believe dis haole is stinking up our beach."

_Haole. _Danny's heard the word before, directed at his person, and while he doesn't quite know what it means, he knows it ain't good. He tilts his head a bit, making a show of scrutinizing the chubby-cheeked ringleader.

"You sure it ain't one of ya own popped zits that you're smelling?" he drawls out, deliberately laying on his Jersey accent as thick as he can. Because _fuck them_! "'Cause I gotta tell you, those greasies, they don't look so good from where I'm standing."

There's a moment of stunned silence as the boy who mocked him blinks stupidly at him from across the table, his mouth – a gaping hole. Danny decides to push the moment along.

"Might wanna close that flytrap of yours before you catch a bug," he suggests helpfully, baring his teeth in a smile that is a cross between a sneer and a snarl.

That does it. The chubby teen surges to his feet with an indignant growl, his faithful retinue following suit, and Danny tenses in eager anticipation and assumes a fighting stance.

It's by no means a fair fight, seven against one, but Danny's never let that stop him before and he's not about to start now. Jersey streets have taught him well. He lands the first punch, solid and damaging, the crunch of bone and the spray of liquid warmth announcing someone's broken nose. There's a cry of pain and the circle of hostile bodies surrounding him is reduced by one.

His triumph is short-lived, however, as someone grabs him from behind, pulling his arms back, and another teen pops up in front of him to deliver a vicious blow to his stomach. He doubles over as much as the restraining arms allow, gasping for breath, just as another fist slams into the side of his head, bringing everything around him momentarily out of focus.

They release him abruptly, letting him drop down to all fours, and he has a split second to react as he sees a dirty, slippah'ed foot heading for his side. Quick and snakelike, he slithers out of the way, grabbing the offending limb in the process, and gives it a vicious twist that has its owner yelp like a wounded puppy. _Good, _he thinks,_ one more down._

It costs him. Hands grab at him again before he has a chance to get his feet fully under him, and a flurry of fists and feet descends on his form, angry and fast like a swarm of furious bees. He's in trouble now, he knows, but if he's gonna go down, he's damn sure taking a few more of these assholes down with him. He bucks, slams his head backwards into the body behind him. There's a grunt, and the grip on him loosens a bit. He takes full advantage, ramming his elbow in the same direction, once and then again and again, until he's free once more. He sprints to his feet, swaying, ready to take on the rest of these bastards – four, if his math is correct.

He sees the chubby teen in front of him, fist already aimed at his head, and he knows the boy's too close, too damn close for him to dodge that hit. And that's gonna suck, because he knows he's likely to go down from a hit like that and go down hard. It's unavoidable, though, and he prepares himself for the inevitable, reeling back as much as he can as the fist descends towards him in a ruthless arc.

It never connects, though, and Danny blinks in sluggish surprise as a tall, dark-haired teen in ridiculous gray cargo pants bursts into the belligerent circle of his assailants and slams bodily into the chubby ringleader, knocking him down onto the grass-covered ground. There's a moment of confusion, and his unlikely savior uses that time to shift closer to Danny and stand in a protective stance beside him, arms hanging with deceptive placidity at his sides, but his eyes, sharp and alert, watching the other teens like a hawk.

The chubby teen picks himself slowly up off the ground and takes a threatening step in the direction of the newcomer. "You fucking lolo, McGarrett?" he snarls, nodding to his band of bruised minions, who take the hint and move in closer, forming a wall of sorts that threatens to crush the two of them. "What d'ya tink you're doing here?"

The teen, McGarrett, shrugs nonchalantly, dark blue eyes sparkling with mischief and a hint of danger. "You know what's funny, Ka'eo," he says, voice calm and bored as if he's reciting a history lesson, instead of facing a potential beat-down, and, damn, Danny's starting to like this kid, "I seem to recall having a talk with you quite recently about working on your aloha spirit. Looks to me like you've forgotten everything we talked about." He tsks in mock disappointment.

Ka'eo's face twists in fury, teeth baring in a feral grin. "Looks to me you're about to get your brains bashed in along with dat haole here!" he declares, taking another step toward them.

McGarrett smiles, and there is nothing even remotely friendly in that smile. "I already kicked your ass twice this week, Ka'eo," he reminds him matter-of-factly, "didn't you have enough?"

Ka'eo narrows his eyes, tilts his head left then right, pointing to the other boys that flank him on both sides. "Numbers aren't on your side dis time, brah," he points out.

McGarrett responds with another careless shrug. "You've never come to a fight without at least a couple of your lackeys in tow. No different now." He turns, winks conspiratorially at Danny. "In fact, I actually have someone to back me up this time, so I'd say the odds are better than average."

Danny bristles at the unceremonious way the teen had just roped him into a partnership of sorts, but he says nothing. He'll deal with the superhero wannabe later, but he's not so vain as to refuse freely offered help when he's faced with a bunch of bloodthirsty idiots and he can already barely see out of one eye. He reaches up to wipe at the blood that's trickling down from a split brow, messing with his vision, and continues to glare at his attackers, waiting for their next move.

Ka'eo watches the two of them, calculating, assessing. And Danny tenses in preparation for another attack, feeling an absurd rush of gratitude for the t-shirt clad shoulder that bumps amicably against him in a silent show of support.

"What's going on here?" A sharp, authoritative exclamation brings all of them up short, and Danny frowns in confusion as he watches his unlikely partner deflate almost as much as the other teens at the sight of two police officers walking toward them.

Ka'eo leans in closer, his pimply face trembling with fury. "This isn't over, McGarrett," he hisses. "And next time your cop daddy won't be there to protect your ass." His threat announced, he runs off in the direction of the beach, his buddies following suit, never once looking back at the approaching cops.

"Steven?" The older cop stops in front of them, the pale blue eyes narrowing expectantly. "Care to explain?"

"Yeah, _Steven_, care to explain?" Danny doesn't know why he's lashing out now, and at this kid of all people. But he's just so fed up with this whole situation, and his body is still vibrating with the need to punch somebody's lights out. All that energy, it needs a way out.

The teen looks Danny's way, gives him an almost bashful smile, running his hand through a mess of dark, wavy hair. "You're... welcome?" he offers cheekily.

"Welcome?" Danny sputters in the face of such open insolence. "What. The hell. For?"

The boy shrugs, his smile growing a tad smug. "Saving your ass? Don't you mainlanders say thank you when someone helps you out?"

"I was doing just fine before you showed up, thank you very much," Danny snaps back, but McGarrett seems to have selective hearing and hones in on the last part.

"You're welcome," he repeats, grinning wider now, and Danny has never felt a greater urge to punch somebody in the face than he does now.

There's a snort of poorly suppressed laughter, and Danny looks up to find the younger cop watching the two of them, a bemused expression on his face. "What's your new friend's name, brah?"

"I'm not his friend," Danny bristles at the suggestion, and then remembers whom he's speaking to and straightens out, smoothing his mussed up hair. "Danny Williams, sir," he introduces himself smartly, ignoring McGarrett's exaggerated pout.

"Pleased to meet you, Danny Williams," the older one nods in acknowledgment and sticks out his hand that Danny has no choice but to shake. "I'm John McGarrett," he says with a welcoming smile, "I believe you've met my son Steve. And this here," he points to his younger associate, "is my partner Chin Ho Kelly." He pulls his hand back, folding his arms across his chest. "Now that we've gotten the introductions out of the way, maybe one of you could tell us what actually happened here?"

Danny sighed, shoving his fisted hands in his jean pockets, and flicked an annoyed glance at the younger McGarrett as if the whole damn thing were his fault.

"That zit-faced Shamu over there wanted to pick a fight," he mutters, nodding in the direction of the retreating teens. "So he got one."

"He means Ka'eo, sir," McGarrett clarifies with an honest-to-goodness blush and Danny gives him an incredulous look, because _seriously_?

The older McGarrett reacts with barely a twitch of his lips. "And your part in this?" he inquires, pinning his son with a hard, piercing stare.

"They were ganging up on him, sir." The teen gives Danny a marginally defiant look, as if daring him to disagree. "I just wanted to even the odds."

"I see." A heavy silence falls between them as the older man watches the two of them, his lips pinched tight with an odd mixture of approbation and worry. "Why don't you take your new friend here to the hospital, Steve," he says finally, his voice clipped and businesslike. "Get him checked out. I'll see you at home." And then he turns around and walks off back to his patrol car, his slightly flustered partner in tow.

_Wow... _

"Charming guy, your dad," Danny quips, once the man is out of hearing range. His companion stands mutely beside him, looking a bit like a dog that had just been kicked by his master. Danny feels an unexplainable twinge of sympathy at the thought.

"It's not you," McGarrett speaks grimly as he watches his father's car pull away. "It's just... I've had some bad clashes with Ka'eo before. Dad doesn't approve... and he worries, too, I guess," he adds as an afterthought.

The teen's words from earlier about Ka'eo not fighting fair come to mind, and Danny can't help inquiring, "Bad how?"

McGarrett turns to him then, a rueful smile tugging at one corner of his lips. "Pretty bad," he confirms, rolling his shoulder a bit as if to relieve some of the tension. "Ka'eo's a coward. He never attacks anyone when he's alone. Always has to have his royal retinue with him, you know what I mean."

Danny knows. Knows the type, too – a greedy bloodsucker who prefers to stay out of harm's way, while his few faithful do all the work for him, so all he's got left to do is gorge on the spoils.

"He and his buddies put me in the hospital twice," McGarrett continues with an it's-no-big-deal shrug. "Once with a concussion and the second time with a broken arm. The third time I repaid the favor." And there's just a hint of boasting in the simple declaration.

Danny lets out a short whistle. "Well, no wonder your dad was so on edge. With the history you guys have and the threat he made–"

McGarrett waves him off. "Dad doesn't know about the threat, and there's nothing to know, really. Just a bunch of empty words."

Danny shakes his head, unconvinced, and McGarrett steals the initiative before Danny can say anything else. "Look, how about we do what my dad asked me to do, huh? My truck's right over there." He points in the direction of the parking lot.

Danny purses his lips, giving the taller teen an evaluative once-over. "My momma told me never to get into a car with a stranger," he taunts, his brow raised mockingly as he waits for the other to respond.

McGarrett frowns at him, looking a bit constipated. "You already know who I am," he objects, spreading his arms out to the sides. "What, you want my whole life's story?"

"A few interesting tidbits might do the trick," Danny concedes with a magnanimous shrug. "Like, for instance, what does that Ka'eo guy have against you and how old were you when you first began exhibiting the superhero complex."

McGarrett grins at that, all wide and toothy. "Tell you what," he says, conspiratorial, "I'll tell you my dirty secrets if you tell me yours. In the car. On our way to the hospital. Deal?"

Danny sticks out his hand. "Put her there, McGarrett."

"Steve," McGarrett insists, giving Danny's hand a pleasantly firm shake.

"You play nice, Steve, I might just let you call me Danny," he retorts, because, yeah, he's actually starting to like the guy.

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><p><em>TBC<em>

_Yes, more whump is coming, don't worry. Much, much, much-much more. (You know me, right? mwa-ha-ha)_

_Reviews are much, MUCH appreciated. The muse tends to sulk without them and becomes very difficult to work with._


	41. A Hawaiian Summer Pt2:A Broken Farewell

**A/N Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to leave a review! I appreciate every one of your comments.**

**That said, it seems this collection is starting to lose steam with readers, and if that is the case, there would be no point for me to continue it any longer. So this 3-parter might be it for "Brothers". Thank you for reading and sticking with this collection this far! You, guys, have been great!**

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><p><strong>A Hawaiian Summer. Pt. 2: A Broken Farewell.<strong>

_Whoosh!_

He dodges the first swing of the baseball bat that one of Ka'eo's underage thugs aims at his head, jumping backwards until he feels the cool metal of his truck against his back. He feels a little better now that his back isn't exposed, but he knows the protection is temporary at best. There are too many of them now, and they have come prepared, armed with brass knuckles and baseball bats. He won't be getting out of this one that easily, he knows. Even without Ka'eo's nastily gloated avowal of the same.

He was careless, too busy talking on his phone to be aware of his surroundings as he hurried to get across the nearly empty convenience store parking lot. Hurrying to get to Danny's uncle's house for the barbecue Danny had invited him to. A farewell barbecue, as Danny is flying out the next morning, heading back to New Jersey. And Steve couldn't miss it, he just couldn't. Even though he knew it was gonna hurt like hell having to say goodbye to Danny.

_Thunk!_

He dodges right, and the bat descends onto the truck's back fender instead, putting a good-sized dent in the blue metal. _Shit, _dad's gonna kill him for that.

He and Danny have become close over these past two months. Joined at the hip kind of close. So much so that Steve feels his heart ache at the mere thought of no longer being able to hang out with this short and spunky, loud-mouthed blond with enough attitude in him to fill the ocean between here and New Jersey. And he knows that Danny's gonna miss him too, despite all of Danny's loud claims to the contrary. Knows that, underneath all that bluster and assertions of undying distaste toward all things Hawaii, Danny's just as broken up about leaving this "tropical hellhole", as he calls it, as Steve is about having him leave.

_Thwack!_

A second bat swings sharply toward his head and he barely has time to raise his right arm in defense, biting down on a howl of pain as he feels his bone crack under the strength of the hit.

It was Danny he was on the phone with. He was running late, remembering at the last minute that he didn't have anything to bring to the barbecue. So he stopped at Akamu's Food and Beverage store and called Danny on his way out the door to let him know he was gonna be there soon. He didn't see them until he was almost to his car – ten hooded shapes that molded themselves out of the afternoon shadows, their weapons swinging menacingly back and forth as they approached. _Ten_. Ka'eo wasn't taking any chances. And a part of him actually feels oddly flattered that the teen thinks him so dangerous as to nearly triple the number of his "protectors" from their last such encounter.

_Thwogg! _

He kicks out at the closest body before him, going for the basic A-frame kick that his uncle Joe had shown him when he first expressed interest in learning MMA-style fighting. There's a yelp of pain and the kid in front of him folds in half at the waist, dropping the bat in the process. And now he's got a weapon, which gives him a much needed edge even with a broken arm.

It's awkward as hell, but he swings out left-handed and manages to knock down at least two of his attackers before a third one catches him with a sideswiping blow to his bad arm. His vision whitens out momentarily, the intensity of the pain stealing his breath, and that loss of focus costs him. Dearly.

_Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! _

Three simultaneous, brutal hits are driven home: one slams into his kidney and the other blows out his left knee, doubling him over, while the third one smashes into the back of his head, dropping him all the way to the ground.

The world slips away for a moment, and he is aware only of the hot blacktop – too rough against his skin, too close to his suddenly wavering vision.

Up, he needs to get up. Needs to get out of here. To Danny. He needs to get to Danny. Because he's late. He's already late. And Danny's gonna be upset. And leave, Danny's gonna leave. He can't let him. He needs to...

He blinks the fuzz away, tries to push himself up on his one functional arm.

_Wham!_

A foot slams into his midsection, flipping him onto his back. A booted foot, no slippahs. Ka'eo came well prepared this time. He kicks out with his good leg, catching one of them in the shin, and manages to scissor-sweep another off his feet.

He isn't given a chance to enjoy his bit of triumph. Another teen slams his foot into his damaged knee, and Steve howls like a wounded animal, twisting on his side to protect his injured limb.

The fight is lost at this point. He's stubborn, though. (Or so his dad says. Danny, too, for that matter.) He still tries to resist, tries his best to punch, kick, bite against the whirlwind of punishing blows that descends on him from all sides. It's of no use. There are simply too many of them, and they hold nothing back.

_Snap! _

He feels another rib crack under the brutal assault, the flare of pain making him gasp.

Danny told him he'd gotten his ribs cracked once, too. Back in Jersey. _That must have sucked_, he had told him then. _You have no idea, _Danny had replied. Now he does, though. He'll be sure to tell Danny that.

He curls in on his side, tries to raise his arm in an attempt to shield his face and head from further blows. He's already lost count of how many he'd taken so far.

_Thwack!_

Someone's bat hammers into his shoulder, and he hears a pop before a sizzling surge of pain rushes through him, overloading all synapses and senses. Everything blurs after that. Becomes one blinding, endless flurry of savage pain.

_Wham! Wham! Thwack! Thwack! Snap!_

He finds himself face down on the asphalt again, the smell of the sun-baked blacktop and fumes from old oil stains clogging up his nose, making him nauseous. Or, maybe it's the concussion. He's pretty sure he's got one by now, what with... how many blows to the head was it? _Ah, forget it_, he thinks dully, he's lost count.

Something catches his faltering attention, a small dark shape lying on the ground under the rear bumper of his truck. He frowns at it, trying to figure out what the shape is, because he knows it's important somehow, that he needs it for... something.

_The phone!,_ his sluggish brain supplies finally. That's right, he was still talking to Danny when he got jumped by Ka'eo's boys. Must've dropped it there during the fight. _Is Danny still there?_, he wonders. Maybe he can call out to him, ask him to send help.

"D'nny..." His bloodied lips move soundlessly, his voice never carrying past his own mind. "Danny," he tries again, nearly crying at the barely audible hiss that slipped forth from his mouth. This won't do, he thinks, even as he forces his broken arm to move, reaching for the device. The movement is slow and painful as hell, as his arm scrapes along the blacktop at a snail's pace, trembling with the effort.

It's too slow. And all too soon his purpose is discovered. Booted feet fill his vision and he makes a garbled noise of protest as he watches one of the teens lean down beside him to make a grab for the phone. Moans pitifully when one of those feet steps onto his outstretched hand and grinds into it until the small bones there break.

"Well, well, well," Ka'eo's jeering voice floats toward him through the ever-thickening fog that seems to have wrapped itself around his brain. Someone's fingers grasp and twist his hair, pulling his head up off the ground, forcing him to look up. "Looks like our friend here was trying to make a phone call. Calling your haole bitch for help, eh McGarrett?"

He doesn't answer. Can't, even if he wanted to. He's too busy concentrating on not puking in front of these kids.

The phone is smashed forcefully against the asphalt, Ka'eo's foot slamming down on top of it for good measure. "Oops," Ka'eo taunts. "Guess you won't be making that phone call after all." And Steve can feel him move in closer, the teen's hot, spam-smelling breath wafting over his cheek. "Awww, are you gonna cry now?"

"F'fuck... you..." he manages between short, convulsive gulps.

He knows it's a bad idea, knows it's only gonna piss Ka'eo off more, but he no longer gives a damn. He just wants this to be over. He almost smiles then as a brass-knuckled fist slams against the side of his head, shattering the already fuzzy picture into tiny, brittle shards. There's a sickening crack, followed by a blindingly white explosion of pain that burns away the pitiful remains of his consciousness, and he embraces the merciful blackness with both arms.

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><p><em>TBC <em>

_Conclusion to follow_


	42. A Hawaiian Summer Part 3: The Beginning

**A/N Thank you, guys, so much for your response! It's good to be wrong in some instances, I guess :) And I truly appreciate all the kind comments. Thank you!**

**Here's the conclusion to this installment. It's a bit long-ish, as there was a lot of ground to cover, but, hopefully, the resolution is satisfactory. **

**There's also a bit of a challenge in here for you. If you read carefully enough you might find an homage of sorts to the... uh... origins of my pen name. Additional kudos to anyone who can tell me where that particular passage is from ;-)**

**Big thanks as always to the amazing Swifters for her beta and to KQ for her invaluable medical input! xxx**

**Enjoy. And, please, do let me know if you enjoyed it or not. It may not seem like much, but, trust me, every review means a lot**

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><p><strong>A Hawaiian Summer. Pt. 3: The Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship<strong>

Danny arrives on the scene less than five minutes after Ka'eo and his buddies leave, less than five minutes after it's all over, coming to a tire-screeching halt next to Steve's Silverado. His uncle is probably gonna be mad at him for treating his car like that, not to mention taking it without really asking, but he really didn't have a choice. Not after what he heard coming from Steve's end of the conversation as he was about to hang up the phone. He only had time to yell out to his uncle that Steve was in trouble and that he needed to go after him. And so he went, grateful beyond measure that Steve had the forethought to call him, that Danny had asked him where the hell he was.

To think how annoyed he was that his best friend was running late for his farewell party, quipping that whatever Steve purchased at that rundown convenience store better be worth the time Danny was gonna waste waiting for his sorry ass to get here. _Worth it. _ Nothing was worth hearing that wail of agony that nearly made him lose control of the car as he pulled out of his uncle's driveway. And he hopes and prays all the way to Akamu's Food and Beverage store that things aren't gonna be as bad as he fears when he gets there.

And then he does get there. And he sees Steve, bloodied and broken, and so, SO still. And he freezes. Can't make his feet move one single inch in the direction of his downed friend. Alive? Is Steve even still alive?

A sharp wail of sirens cuts through the unnatural quiet of the nearly deserted parking lot, and he jolts out of his daze, raising his head in time to see an ambulance and a police cruiser pull up behind his car. An instant later there's a flurry of activity and he's pushed aside, sending a silent "thank you" to whomever it was that had thought to call 911.

His view of Steve is blocked momentarily and he fidgets anxiously, straining to see what is going on, straining to know. The EMTs' movements are urgent, frantic even and on some level Danny welcomes the urgency, because that urgency means Steve isn't dead. They wouldn't be trying to save a dead body, would they?

"Oh, dear God!" he hears suddenly and he gets the sentiment, he really does, because he feels bile rise in his throat as he catches a glimpse of his friend's horribly battered face while he's being strapped to the gurney. _Oh, Steve..._

Words wash over him in a nauseating haze.

"Oh man, that's McGarrett's kid."

"Somebody better fucking call him then, 'cause we gotta roll. The kid doesn't have much time."

He swallows convulsively, takes a wavering step forward. "I'm...," he mumbles, his voice inexplicably hoarse, inexistent almost. He growls, clearing his throat just as the paramedics push past him to get to the ambulance. "I need to... I'm going with him," he declares, breathless by the time he finishes.

One of the EMTs throws him a look, and Danny's sure somehow that he's gonna say no, tell him to back away. So he digs his heels in, prepares to argue, plead, beg, _anything _to get into that ambulance, because he needs to be close to Steve now. And it's a deep, visceral need – the mere thought of seeing those back doors close in front of him, cutting him off from his friend is enough to make him want to puke. The EMT must see something of that desperation on Danny's face, because he nods suddenly, and before Danny knows it, he's already sitting in the back of the ambulance, holding on to Steve's limp, cold hand as to a lifeline, while the vehicle races with frightening urgency toward the nearest hospital.

H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50

They stop Danny from going in past the OR doors, someone, some scrubs-clad form, planting themselves directly in front of him, blocking his path. He starts to protest, starts to push past the unwelcome obstacle, when a firm hand lands on his shoulder, holding him back. He bucks, ready to twist himself out of the stranger's grasp, and finds himself looking up right into the face of Steve's dad, ghostly pale and drawn. And just like that all fight abandons him at once, and he wobbles in place, the sudden drop in adrenaline making him dizzy. The hand on his shoulder tightens and he is led gently but firmly toward the waiting room chairs.

"Sit." And he is guided down onto one of the padded seats, Steve's father squatting down in front of him. "He's gonna be okay." But there's undisguised worry in the pale blue eyes, and Danny feels little reassurance from the words.

_How can you be sure_, he wants to object. Because Steve's father wasn't _there_, didn't see his son lying in a pool of his own blood, twisted and torn like a broken, discarded rag doll. He doesn't say any of that, though. Can't make himself form the words. Can barely find enough energy to breathe.

He doesn't notice when his uncle comes in, only becomes aware of his presence when a cup of something warm is placed in his hand and a familiar voice encourages him to drink. He does so, on autopilot, not really registering the taste or the smell. It doesn't matter, he wouldn't care even if this were his favorite drink on the planet. The only thing he wants right now, the only thing he needs is for someone to walk out of that operating room and tell him that Steve is going to be okay.

It is another three hours before Danny gets his wish, before the weary-looking surgeon obliges them with guarded optimism and fragile hope, and a horrifyingly long list of injuries.

- A ruptured spleen.

- A severely bruised kidney.

- Hypovolemic shock resulting from the above. Steve had crashed twice on the operating table until they were able to stabilize his blood pressure.

- A collapsed lung, punctured by one the several broken ribs.

- A broken collarbone.

- A broken ulna bone of the right arm.

- Crushed phalanges and metacarpals of the right hand.

- Torn MCL and ACL in his left knee.

- Orbital fracture of the left eye. Impact on his vision in that eye, if any, to be determined.

- A subdural hematoma caused by what were likely repeated blows to the head. The resulting dangerous buildup of pressure had to be relieved by way of craniotomy. The doctors have no way of determining the extent of brain damage, if any, until Steve wakes up.

He is in a coma now, the doctor explains. It's a necessity, to allow his body the rest it needs to heal. He would be in too much pain otherwise, his body working overtime to deal with the strain.

Danny listens to all of that in a horror-numbed daze, his mind stuttering over the doctor's words, choking on the violent collage of images that accompanies each one. The pool of blood around Steve's head, a dark glistening stain against the black of the pavement. Steve's face, beaten almost to the point of being unrecognizable. Steve's body, twisted, curled in on itself, as though he was trying desperately to escape the deadly blows. Steve's hand, badly bruised and swollen, broken fingers outstretched, reaching for the shattered remains of a phone. _Oh, God... _The realization hits him with a throat-clogging surge of nausea, and he twists sharply in place and takes off for the closest bathroom, one hand clamped over his mouth.

Steve's dad finds him as he's hunched over the toilet bowl, his clammy, pasty-white fingers all but blending in with the porcelain edge they've got a death grip on. His stomach is churning, revolting, spasming violently in a morbid echo of the surgeon's words.

"Danny?"

He pulls back then, flopping limply against the stall wall, squints up through a mess of sweaty bangs at the worried face above him. "He was just trying to reach the phone," he manages in between convulsively heaved in breaths. "The... the way he was lying there... he must already been down, barely conscious probably. He... he wouldn't have been a threat to them anymore. They could've taken the phone away, and he wouldn't have been able to stop them." He swallows thickly as nausea threatens again. "They b-broke his hand just for kicks."

He hears a sharp intake of breath that sounds like a hiss of suppressed anger and the older man squats down beside him, hand once again on Danny's shoulder. "We'll get whoever did this to Steve, Danny, I promise you. They won't get away."

"You know perfectly well who did this to him!" Danny all but snarls, twisting angrily out of the man's grasp. "And when I get my hands on that bastard–"

"No." John McGarrett silences his burgeoning threat with a simple wave of his hand. "You will go nowhere near this, Danny. My colleagues are still taking witness statements. If Ka'eo was, indeed, behind this attack, he's going to jail, along with anyone else who was involved."

"But you heard the doctor. You know what they did to him," Danny argues, barely holding back the tears of helplessness. "You know what they..."

"Yes, I did." McGarrett's voice breaks for the first time, emotion dripping through raw and unfettered. He closes his eyes momentarily, as if trying to erase the image of his battered son on that gurney. "And they won't be getting off easy, Danny," he repeats darkly, "I promise you that."

Danny nods, satisfied by the earnest heat behind the words.

"Danny?" A new voice draws his attention to the stall door to find his uncle looking down at him with a mixture of worry and impatience. "Are you okay?"

"Peachy," he snaps, too emotionally exhausted to dial back on the sarcasm, because if the bowl full of vomit hasn't clued his uncle in...

His uncle's brow furrows. "You want me to get the doctor?"

"No." He shakes his head, huffs ruefully. "I'll be fine... just as soon as I erase the image of my best friend getting beaten to a pulp by a bunch of overgrown losers out of my mind."

There's a moment of awkward silence, and then his uncle coughs lightly as if to clear his throat. "Right, well, we should get going."

"Get going?" Danny gapes up at him as if the man had suddenly grown a second head.

"You have an early flight tomorrow, bud," his uncle reminds him gently, "and you still have to pack."

He shakes his head for a completely different reason now. Pushing himself up to his feet, arm out to keep himself from falling over, he hisses out low and categorical, "I ain't going anywhere. Not until I know that Steve's okay."

"Danny." And there's that "be reasonable" tone that gets all of Danny's hackles up.

"I am _not _going," he repeats stubbornly, scowling openly at the man. "School doesn't start for 3 more weeks. And even if I miss a week or so at the beginning, it's no big deal."

"No big deal?" His uncle's eyebrows shoot up, all but disappearing into his hairline. "Danny, you've been trying to get out of Hawaii since the moment you got off the airplane, talking about how much you hate it here and all. What–"

"I've changed my mind," he says simply. "I'm staying until I know that Steve's okay." And that's that.

H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50

It is another five days before the doctors deem it safe to start slowly bringing Steve out of the coma, lightening the anesthesia to sedation. Nurses had told him that talking helps speed up the recovery, and so Danny spends most of his time sitting at Steve's bedside, holding his uninjured hand and talking, talking to him non-stop. Telling him stories of Jersey, of his family, of his first kiss –Ellie Johnson, a tall, blue-eyed cheerleader with legs that start from her neck and tits to die for. Singing every Bon Jovi song he could remember. Reading to him his favorite pirate novels.

It's hard to look at Steve like this, all silent and still, swathed in myriads of bandages. But it would have been a million times harder if he had died that day, and Danny's grateful beyond measure for his friend's stubborn persistence, for hanging on when it counted, for gradually, painstakingly fighting his way back.

The distressing mask and tube are now gone as Steve is finally allowed to breathe on his own, and Danny gets his first unobstructed view of Steve's face since the day of the attack.

It looks... better, he supposes. Albeit marginally so. It's still swollen and scraped and bruised. The left side of it is still covered in bandages from the surgery to repair Steve's orbital fracture. But there are definite signs of healing, and Danny can finally recognize his friend's features in the mangled mess. He takes some satisfaction in the knowledge that the ten bastards who did this to his friend are now all in custody, their bails denied, as they wait to be tried as adults for assault and battery in the first degree and attempted murder. He would have felt better if he had been given the chance to give Ka'eo a taste of his own medicine, Jersey style. He still firmly believes that cement shoes are a good fashion statement as far as some people are concerned.

Still, being here, being with Steve, helping guide his friend back to the world of the living is more important, and Danny takes that task damn seriously.

He shifts slightly in the bedside chair, struggling to find a more comfortable position. It's an exercise in futility. He knows as much after the amount of time he spent sitting in the damn thing. Still, he tries, for show if nothing else. The book he's been reading slips a bit in his grasp with the movement, making him lose his place, and he curses softly, flipping the page back to where it was supposed to be.

"Ready for more, babe?" he asks, winking conspiratorially at his unresponsive companion. "Okay then, where were we...

_"You did me a service, Captain Blood, and I had hoped that we might be friends. But since you prefer to have it otherwise..." He shrugged, and waved a hand towards the Deputy-Governor._

_Blood completed the sentence in his own way:_

_"Ye mean that ye haven't the strength of character to resist the urgings of a bully." He was apparently at his ease, and actually smiling. "Well, well—as I said before—praemonitus, praemunitus. I'm afraid that ye're no scholar, Bishop, or ye'd know that I means forewarned, forearmed."_

_"Forewarned? Ha!" Bishop almost snarled. "The warning comes a little late. You do not leave this house." He took a step in the direction of the doorway, and raised his voice. "Ho there..." he was beginning to call._

_Then with a sudden audible catch in his breath, he stopped short. Captain Blood's right hand had reemerged from the breast of his doublet, bringing with it a long pistol with silver mountings richly chased, which he levelled within a foot of the Deputy-Governor's head._

_"And forearmed," said he. "Don't stir from where you are, my lord, or there may be an accident."_...

It is another two days before Steve claws his way back to consciousness. Two days before those steel-blue eyes open to hazy slits, settling sluggishly on Danny's face.

"Hey..." The voice is raspy and paper thin, but after hearing no one but himself speak for so long it's music to Danny's ears.

"Hey yourself," he replies, putting the book down and reaching for the call button. "How you feeling?"

Steve seems to consider the question, blinking slowly, his gaze turning inward. "Don't feel much... of anything," he murmurs, surprised. "What happened?"

"What happened is you, my friend, have, apparently, decided to keep me in Hawaii for a little longer and found a unique way of doing it."

"Huh?" Steve's face creases into a mask of utter, helpless confusion, and Danny can't help a bubble of genuine, happy laughter that bursts forth at that expression on his friend's face.

"Don't worry about it, babe," he soothes, grinning from ear to ear, as he carefully pats Steve's uninjured shoulder. "Your brain's just a bit addled at the moment. I'm sure it'll come to you."

Steve looks like he wants to argue, wants to ask more questions, but this conversation, as short as it was, is already taking its toll on his healing body, and his eyes are starting to droop closed despite his best efforts to keep them open.

Danny smiles fondly at Steve's valiant attempts to stay awake, leans in closer to run a gentle hand through the teen's dark, matted curls. "Stop fighting, you goof," he chides, nodding to the nurse who slips into the room to check on her patient. "Sleep now, you need your rest."

Steve drags his eyes open by sheer force of will, focuses blearily on Danny's face. "You'll be... here?" There's barely any strength behind the words, all of Steve's energy well and truly expended.

Danny swallows against a sudden, inexplicable tightness in his throat, runs his thumb soothingly across Steve's forehead. "You bet your ass I will," he promises hoarsely and keeps running his thumb back and forth, back and forth against the cool skin, until Steve's eyes slip closed and his breathing evens out into a peaceful, healing slumber.

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><p><em>FIN<em>

_Till next time, hopefully, right?_


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